


Les Carrés Rouges sous l'Arc-en-ciel

by Hyela



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Character, College AU, Depression, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Past Suicide Attempt, Queer Themes, Romance, Trans Female Character, Unrequited Love, bittersweet at times but happy ending, first names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:45:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyela/pseuds/Hyela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All coming from different backgrounds, they somehow fit together in a sort of flashy, artsy puzzle that some eccentric artist had put together. But "Art doesn't always last", would say Grantaire, and although their youth makes them believe, this new family has its lot of struggles to come.</p><p>In chapter 6, Grantaire suffers inside, but still clings to his friends and his meager talent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Un Musicien Parmi Tant d'Autres (Enjolras)

**Author's Note:**

> -This is a multichapter story.  
> -Each chapter will be from the point of view of a given character. I guess there's going to be a lot of Grantaire, but I'll try to put a little of everyone in it.  
> -Les Amis don't all know each other. They're not all friends at the start. It slowly gets there.  
> -The OCs in the story are mostly the parents.  
> -Each chapter will be named after a French song. I will put the translation in the notes at the bottom.  
> -This is probably going to be a long fic. I have 23 chapters planned, but I still don't know if there'll be more.  
> -I don't have a plot in particular: it's more character driven and full of dialogues.  
> -The title could be translated to "The Red Squares under the Rainbow".  
> -The story takes place in Quebec instead of France, about a year after the first student protests and the "Printemps Érable" in 2012. But for my sake, let's just say they took place in 2013. Pretty please?  
> -English is not my first language and I don't have a beta. Sorry if it's a little sketchy.

**Un Musicien parmis tant d’Autres**

  
Où est passé tout ce monde,  
Qui avait quelque chose à raconter?  
On a mis quelqu'un au monde  
On devrait peut-être l'écouter  
~Harmonium

 

 

“How the hell do you get lost on your way to the subway? You practically live next to station Outremont, dude!” asked Courfeyrac for the third time. This time around, he almost succeeded in suppressing his laughter. Nevertheless, Enjolras could clearly hear him and his friends snicker and it made him grit his teeth in annoyance. He repressed the urge to snap or to hang up, because Courfeyrac was a good friend, but he had little patience in the morning and so he decided to politely put an end to the conversation by saying that he finally found the station.

“You sure, Angel? I’m kinda busy, but I could always send someone to get you. Wouldn’t want you to get late on the first day.” Courfeyrac even managed to pour a healthy dose of concern among all his hilarity. Enjolras declined curtly, hung up, and shoved his phone in his bag, cursing the moment he decided not to print out a map —not that it would necessarily have helped.

It was indeed his first day at the University of Montreal. He was starting a program in political science, his first class was on political systems, and it would not do to be late. Even though he could not care less about the lazy, apathetic looks he anticipated he would get from most of the students, he just did not like missing the beginning of a course. He would spent the rest of it feeling like he had incomplete information, whether it was true or not. The problem was, he was sure it was the fifth time he walked in front of that red building.

Frustrated, Enjolras spined on his heels to try the other way. Unfortunately, he stepped onto a spot of black ice well-hidden under the snow and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, his back and his head hurting quite a lot. Sparks of white danced before him and his vision went blurry with tears. He let out a groan and tried to sit up, but pain exploded in his head and he decided against it, closing his eyes. He just lied there for a while, his hand searching for his bag that must have fell further away, before realizing someone was shouting his name. Just for a second, he thought it was Combeferre, who sometimes called him by his first name. However, it would not make sense for Combeferre to be there, so neither would his voice. It was a strange voice. A pretty voice. All low and gravely. The guy –it was probably a guy, but maybe he shouldn’t assume– could probably sing well with such a voice.

“Aurel. Aurel? Hey, are you okay?”

“Please, don’t call me that...” he finally muttered back, “Seriously, it’s such an ugly name.”

“Oh, come on. Nothing about you can ever be ugly,” said the guy with a sickly sweet tone laced with potential sarcasm. He then added, “You should hear mine.”

“What, you got something that sounds as old, pretentious and corny than Aurel?”

“Viateur Grantaire,” he said after a pause. “But just Grantaire, really. Glad to meet you. Enjolras.”

Enjolras opened his eyes and his gaze fell upon a chubby olive face with a large wrinkled nose, droopy blue eyes and some acne scars. Greasy black curls fell around the man’s face under a red wooly hat. Enjolras felt his face heat up. He was unsure as to why, but maybe something in the intensity of Grantaire’s gaze, or his thick parted lips that were slowly turning into a smirk. Viateur meant ‘traveller’, or something...

“Hey, Enjolras, you okay? You’re a little red. Think you got a concussion? I could call you an ambulance, or–”

“No, no... just help me on my feet, would you? Don’t just stare at me.” growled Enjolras, burning with embarrassment. Frankly, he’s rarely experienced instant attractions before and he did not trust them one bit. Especially not those meet-cute types. So the guy went to his aid and had nice eyes among all these socially unflattering traits. So what. The last ten people who tried to flirt with Enjolras were all superficial douchebags who cared less about others than about their own libido. Not that Grantaire would necessarily try to flirt with Enjolras...

“Oh, is that the sweet commanding tone of an angel? What an irresistibly charming sound, more appealing than any mermaid chant. How could I stand not to help you immediately!”

...was that flirting or mocking? It sounded like a perplexing mix of the two. Honey mixed with vinegar.

Enjolras pinched his lips and sat up by himself, his feathers ruffled, and he nearly smacked Grantaire’s hand when he offered it, choosing to take it at the last moment to get up. He noticed that Grantaire was smaller than him, but sturdier. He had a warm, solid grip.

“You wrathful little bird, you! I did not mean to offend. Your tone amused me, is all.”

“Pardon me to not sound too jovial when I’m sprawled on the ground, late for class, and sporting a mighty headache.” Enjolras retorted. Grantaire gripped his hand a little harder and stopped smiling, concerned. Enjolras let him.

“You sure everything’s okay? You know, once a girl fell and banged her head on the ice while we were playing hockey, and she went blind for a minute.”

“I’m fine. I’m also late. Now if you excuse me–” he started to say, but Grantaire cut him off.

“Okay, well. My piece of shit car is right there. I could give you a lift, it’s no problem. It’s icy everywhere. And I want to make sure you get there in one piece.”

Enjolras finally noticed the green Chevrolet on the other side of the street. He wasn’t an expert on cars, but it did indeed look old and a bit rusty. One of the windows was cracked, the paint was chipped off in big parts all over the vehicle, and the metal was bumped in places. The door on the driver side was still hanging opened, letting Enjolras see there was kind of a mess of crumbled papers and random articles on the passenger seat, which foretell the state of the backseat. However, the first thing that went to Enjolras’ mind was that this guy was kind enough to get out of his car to check on him and then offer him a lift without even knowing where Enjolras was heading off to. The second thing that went to his mind was that Grantaire didn’t know Enjolras at all.

“I don’t know you,” he blurted, and perhaps was it a bit too sharped, a bit too indignant, “In fact, you don’t know me either. How do you even know my name?”

Grantaire frowned, apparently confused and offended, but then something sparked in his eyes. He seemed to remember something. He squeezed Enjolras’ hand, reminding him that all this time, he had not let go.

“True. Sorry, sir,” he said sheepishly, making Enjolras snort, “It is true that you must not remember me. We were never introduced properly. But I do know you, to some extent. I mean, not personally, but you were all over the news last year, along with the leaders of the red squares. They called you Angel Face.”

Enjolras nodded as the events of the Printemps Érable came to him in bright colours, harsh shouts, enthusiastic slogans, and police sirens. The fight against the rise of the tuition has left numerous bruises on his ego, when he was dismissed as a privileged child throwing a temper tantrum out of boredom, and numerous more on his body when he resisted arrest in a situation that he still deemed unfair (he insulted a cop who had pepper-sprayed Courfeyrac in the eyes for no valid reason). He had been a student in a Cégep in Québec City back then, merely a newbie when it came to public protests and interviews. He certainly was not one of the most important faces of the lot, yet the image of him all dressed in red, chanting among other students, a passionate look in his eyes, had stuck with the populace. And with Grantaire —who was still holding his hand— obviously. Still, it had been a while since someone actually recognized him.

“So that explains how you know my name, but not why I should know yours,” he said, finally letting go of Grantaire’s hand awkwardly.

“Indeed, someone like you would not take the habits of remembering the name of poor humble me. That much should have been obvious.” The sarcasm was back into Grantaire’s deep voice, like he could not get rid of it for too long.

“Don’t be like that,” protested Enjolras, “I didn’t mean to say you were not worth remembering.”

“Sounded like it. You have this snobbish air to you.”

“What? No, I don’t!” protested Enjolras, knowing that was not a wise thing to say.

“So, my opinion is not worthwhile. Just like my name. So hurtful.”

“Would you stop that! I-I... I apologize!” Enjolras yelled, disconcerted. Grantaire stared at him, perplexed, than burst into laughter. He even threw his head back, unashamed, to let out a booming laugh that reminded Enjolras of that giant he met during one of the strikes in Montreal. That’s when it clicked.

“You are one of Bahorel’s friend. I think you fart in the middle of the speech I made, and called me a pompous prick.”

Truth to be told, Enjolras was disappointed. He remembered the rather small, hairy guy who kept interrupting him and making rude jokes at the expense of the student movement, to the annoyance of everybody. Enjolras had endured him for a whole hour before the beginning of the march. His best friend Combeferre, surprisingly, lost his patience first and snapped at Grantaire, telling him to shut the fuck up or to leave. He did shut up, but he had not look apologetic or more moved by the cause.

“Yeah, that was me! Glad to see I made an impression, in the end.”

“That’s one way to put it. Now I know you’re one of these people who snorts at me when I try to further a cause, and I know that I have to decline your lift. And... oh my God, I’m so late.”

“Try to further a cause,” repeated Grantaire, mockery lingering in his smile.

“Why, yes! Some of us have the good sense of being socially conscious.”

“Or, rather, some of you can afford it.”

“So, for you, the protests, the marches, the interviews... they are the hobbies of rich people?”

“Look, I’m sure that your sentiments are noble. I just prefer to hold a realistic view on the matter, is all. You were all going on as though you were going to change the world. Seemed like there were an awful lot of people who were going to be disappointed.”

“We won! Well, sorta.” Enjolras replied.

“Sure. For now. As a tool for a political party to get the lead in the election. Bravo.”

“Are you always that pessimistic and cynical?”

“Sometimes, I’m even worse!” exclaimed Grantaire, a jovial smile stretching his lips. Enjolras could not help but smile back.

“Still, you were at the protest with us.”

“Oh, I was dragged there by Bahorel and did not intend to stay. I’m not even a student anymore. I stayed because you made that speech.”

“You’re not going to make me believe that I convinced you of anything,” said Enjolras, but his heart was beating a little faster at the thought.

“Convinced? Nah, I’m too stubborn. I have this resolution of not holding any believe in anything. It was really hard to look away, though, and to stop listening. I tried to disheartened you a few times and you just kept going, getting more and more fiery with each passing second. It was... I’m sorry, I’m being my creepy self here! I’ll just... Are you coming, or not?”

Without waiting for a response, he went back towards his car. Enjolras picked up his bag and followed him docilely. He did not know what he was doing, and the warning of his mother against getting into a stranger’s car was swirling in his mind, but he decided that he liked a challenge, and that Grantaire seemed like an interesting person, unafraid to speak his mind.

Grantaire feverishly grabbed at the mess sprawled on the passenger seat and threw it carelessly behind. Enjolras sat in the car and buckled his seatbelt. When Grantaire’s hand went for the radio, he smacked it, earning himself a questioning, but playful look.

“You’re not asking me what’s my destination?”

“UDEM. I know. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not a stalker. Bahorel told me. I did not ask. Well, maybe I did. Innocently. Anyway, I swear I’m not a scary, dangerous person.”

“It’s fine. I don’t know Bahorel much, though.”

“Yeah, but he shares an apartment with Feuilly, who’s friend of a guy named Jehan, who has this website about queerness, and who’s a friend of yours.”

“I know that. I just meant, from now on if you have questions, you can ask me directly instead. Since I’m so interesting.” teased Enjolras. Was that flirting? He was about sure that Courfeyrac would call this flirting. He began to feel a bit torn between excitement and his earlier thought of not trusting instant attractions. He shouldn’t even be doing this, what with beginning university, but for the first time in a while, he felt a thrill at the idea.

Grantaire seemed surprised. He cleared his throat, started the car, and remained silent for a little while. Enjolras tried to converse a couple of times, but his answers were either vague or shorts. He even frowned at him twice and moved his hand towards the radio. Enjolras swatted it again.

“Okay, what is it?”

“What?” said Grantaire, uneasy.

“Well, one moment you are happy and jokey, and the other you’re all sullen and silent. I don’t think I said anything offensive. I only invited you to see me again. Was that so horrible? Are you in the closet and so I’ve made you uncomfortable? Or perhaps you are worried that I’m lying? Or are you dreading it because you feel pressured? My friends tell me I can make them feel pressured at times.”

“No, no, stop. I’m not... I do want to see you again. It was just very sudden.”

“So?”

“So, if it was for a fuck, I’m not saying —no don’t make that face, please, I’m not finished— If it was casual. But you invited me to get to know you and that’s one thing I’m not good at, so I got shy, is all. You’ll probably regret that decision later on. Also, I don’t want you to feel obliged because I’m giving you a ride or something.”

“I’m not feeling obliged at all, Grantaire. If I thought you were an absolute jerk, I would have left.”

“I am kind of a jerk, though.”

“So am I. I barked at you for no reason, I get into intense verbal fights with people, I get so passionately angry about social issues that I get on my best friends’ nerves, I bite my nails and throw them on the floor, I—”

“Haha, okay, okay. I get it. You want to get to know me,” Grantaire smiled, “You must not have a lot of friends to want to hang out with the first stranger who gives you a hand, unless it’s the blow on the head?”

“You seem like a depreciative person.” noted Enjolras, rolling his eyes. “It’s good to know that you mock yourself as much as you do others. But how can you know that you’d be so worthless to me? You don’t. We might get along. I might think that you are a wonderful human being, in the end.”

“You are a very optimistic person. Must be why you are so angry all the time. You have the habit of getting disappointed. Am I right?” sneered Grantaire. He was not going to accept the compliment. At least, not without a fight.

“Disappointment is no reason not to try and see. Disappointment is no reason to sit on my ass doing nothing out of fear. Of course, I get disappointed. But don’t you get frustrated and powerless to just let things be as they are?” This got a nod from Grantaire, but then he shook his head and snort. He was not an easy person to sway. _However_ , thought Enjolras, _I succeeded once. It’s hard for him to ignore me_. He smiled. “I consent to try you, and I bet you that I won’t be disappointed.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really,” repeated Enjolras. All thoughts of slowing down and stopping to flirt were forgotten. He was having fun, arguing with that man.

“Well, then. It would be a shame to refuse, since you are so determined to like me. I don’t know if I should feel flattered or like some sort of guinea pig.”

“You’re not a guinea pig. You’re a charming person. This is me being charmed.”

“Oh, come on. You keep slapping me.”

“I’m not slapping you!”

Grantaire grumble and his hand left the wheel for the radio. Like the two first times, Enjolras swatted it. He laughed, and Grantaire joined him.

“I swear! I mean, we did hold hands for a few minutes.”

The tip of Grantaire’s ears went red. “Yeah, we did. We’re here...” he said. Enjolras hadn’t noticed that they have arrived. He checked his phone for the time. He was a little late, but not by much. He sighed, but since he already missed the beginning of the class, he could stand to lose another couple minutes. He showed his hand to Grantaire and made a beckoning gesture.

“Do you have a phone? I’ll put my number into it.”

“Ah, err, yes.”

Enjolras rapidly punched his number into the cellphone, then he gave his to Grantaire so he could do the same. The man looked rather pleased, which made Enjolras pleased in turn.

“So, you want me to call you?” Grantaire asked.

“Sure. I finish at four, and I go to sleep at ten thirty. Be sure to call me before that time. Then, you will give me your e-mail address, or your facebook, and I will send you my schedule, so we can plan to see each other again. Sometimes, my friends and I go to a coffee shop on Côte-des-Neige, so maybe you can come one day? We’re thinking of holding our weekly meetings there. We’re planning on getting busy this year, with clubs, schoolwork and—”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down, Golden boy. I can’t concentrate on all your rambling. Besides, I know that you are late, so hurry up. I’ll call you. Promise.”

Enjolras smiled. Something came over him and he leaned forward and kissed Grantaire on the cheek. He got to see that cheek become a deep red, and the man started stuttering incoherently, gripping the wheel tightly. Enjolras nearly apologized, blushed and escaped before Grantaire could see it, running towards the Jean-Brillant wing of the university.

  
***

  
“You,” exclaimed Jehan with a big malicious smirk that did not fit their delicate, feminine traits, “You have the face of someone who just had a nice encounter! Tell me everything!”

Enjolras and Jehan both had an hour and a half to eat lunch before their next course, so Jehan had texted Enjolras to meet him at the cafeteria that day. They cooed a bit at Enjolras when the latter told him about his fall, but the moment he implied that someone helped him, Jehan jumped on that information like a predator on a piece of meat.

Jean Prouvaire was a student in French literature. They had ginger hair that almost reached his rear, an explosion of freckles on their face, wide curious blue eyes and the most expressive face Enjolras has ever seen, even though one of his best friends was Courfeyrac. They were generally a very shy person, but once you got to know them, they talked a lot. About art, about feelings, about the last gossips and the news. They could even go on about the weather for hours, if it meant furnishing the silences with words or sounds. The first thing Jean would declare to anyone was that they were genderqueer, and that they preferred being referred to as “Jehan” and “they”. The first thing people noticed about Jehan was their eclectic, eccentric garderobe.

Right now, Jehan was wearing a brown skirt with garish green stockings, an orange shirt and white shoes.

“No, I just met Grantaire again,” Enjolras answered, trying to be casual about it. Jehan scrunched his nose, visibly trying to remember who that could be, and when they did, their whole face followed.

“Oh. The farting dude from last year? You ranted about him for about an hour.”

“I have no memory of that.”

“Seriously, you talked about him as much as you did about the cops. He really had gotten under your skin. We thought you went back to Quebec enraged, because of him. Bahorel was embarrassed on his behalf. I think Feuilly lectured that Grantaire guy, though.”

“Ah, yes, Bahorel’s other friend. Nice of him. Perhaps he has a good influence on people, because today, I thought Grantaire was pleasant. A little pessimistic for my taste, but I can do with it.”

“Because you are so open-minded.”

“Hm-mh.”

“And that you like a challenge.”

Enjolras frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t want him to think he’s only a challenge.”

“Oh, so he’s not only a challenge. He’s also someone you genuinely like. So I was right. You had a _nice_ encounter!” Jehan said smugly. They punctuated their sentence by biting into their apple and smiling widely at Enjolras while chewing.

“It was nice,” snapped Enjolras. He then tried to shrug it off, but it bugged him a little how Jehan —and Courfeyrac— would latch upon that kind of information, teasing and nagging. The truth was, he never knew what to say when it came to conversations about romance. He was always too busy, and sometimes a bit difficult, for a relationship and he was not particularly interested in casual sex. Which meant that his friends deemed him emotionally incompetent, and that they would get excited each time he looked interested in someone. He was usually able to make them give up with their laughter and their questions because he never was romantically interested in someone for too long. Then again, he had never been this attracted to a person’s presence in the course of one meeting.

“There’s no need to get snippy at me, Enjolras,” Jehan said calmly, staring right ahead with an unimpressed look. They always had that look when someone were impolite or down right rude to them. Enjolras apologized sheepishly.

“Sorry, Jehan, but I’m not the type to confide excitedly about crushes or whatever. I just don’t see the point as long as it’s not serious.”

“So you can rant about a man farting while you speak for an hour, but you will zip it when it comes to love. Interesting.”

“Who’s even talking about love! I just met him properly. Slow down. I’m not you, nor am I Courfeyrac.”

“Lust, then,” sighed Jehan, leaning their head against their hand.

“It’s not exactly... Oh, you know what, let’s change the subject. How was your first class? Mine was rather boring. We did not do much, for a first day, and I got the impression that I already knew what the teacher was saying. This is going to be an easy class I think.”

“Not everyone is as pumped and smart as you, remember. But my class was pretty neat. I met a few interesting people. One girl was called Bianca. She bursted into laugh when she saw me, and then she told me that she loved my hair and that we had to be friends. There’s literally kindness and acceptance emanating from her smile! Actually, she’s not in my class, but she was writing there when I arrived, so we had a chat, and I think we’re going to be fast friend...”

Enjolras spaced out. Jehan would talk to themself for the rest of the lunch hour, because he had nothing to add to the conversation. Talking about the content of the course would bore his friend to death, talking about Grantaire right now was a no-no, and it seemed like there was nothing in between. Enjolras did not speak to anyone in his class.

  
***

  
The second class, much like the first, went on uneventful. Enjolras took notes, answered a few questions, did not argue much, and did not speak to anyone. He spent the pause thinking about what he wanted to know about Grantaire, and he kept thinking about it when the class was over.

Walking in direction of the subway, he got out his phone with the intent of texting Combeferre to clear his mind, at the risk of his trepidations being met with polite derision. That was Combeferre’s humour: a sort of deadpan faux-condescension that he only dared to use with his close friends. It was rare to see him getting worked up about anything, though he was as passionate than Enjolras about the causes he supported. He was a calm, serene voice of reason, and that’s how Enjolras liked him.

He had no time to text his friend, though, because a familiar green car stopped near him, and he was honked at. He saw Grantaire beckoning him to get into the Chevrolet, which he did, albeit rather confused.

“What are you doing here?” asked Enjolras. Grantaire grinned at him, but he took on a serious expression when a truck honked them and he had to move.

“Thought that instead of calling you, I’d just come and see you. I hoped you would get out by the same entrance. So many exits with these places.”

“Okay. Was it this urgent to see me again?”

“Does it bother you?”

“No. I just didn’t expect it. Don’t do that too often, though, because as I told you this morning, I plan on being busy during the term.”

“Yes, that is why I thought I’d pick you up now. Are you sure it’s not bothering you? I tend to... I take bad initiatives sometimes.” As he said this, a shadow passed on Grantaire’s face, as though he was remembering something unpleasant. Then, it brightened up again. “So do you, though, since you gave me your number and then kissed me. You won’t be able to get rid of me now, I’m hooked.”

“How’s that a bad initiative, then?”

“You smooth talker,” declared Grantaire. He stopped at a red light, looked at Enjolras right in the eye, and then leaned on and kissed him on the lips. It was only a few seconds, but Enjolras suffered a burst of sensation. His lips were pricking, his face was burning up, his heart was racing, and he felt like he was swooning a little. Grantaire actually laughed after the kiss was over, and Enjolras swatted at him, embarrassed.

“That’s a little early for a first kiss, don’t you think?” said Enjolras. He suddenly felt a little shy, a little lost. On the one hand, he did not like to be kissed without his permission. On the other, he liked it this time.

“Well, you did it first.” retorted Grantaire, waving his hand. The light went green and he went back to his driving, not looking at Enjolras anymore.

“On the cheek!”

“Why, yes, how cheeky of you. I did not even know you.”

“Very funny. But... I just have to say, I can’t get into something too serious. I started uni, I have projects, I’m called socially awkward by my friends... I know that you think I’m optimistic, and I wish you were more, but it’d be more prudent if—”

“Enjolras, we barely pecked at each other. We’re not dating. We’re going out. As two people attracted to each other. Easier to see it like this.”

“But you told me that it was not easy for you.”

“Forget that. Forget your bet about liking me. I’m easy. We’ll have all the fun you want to have with no pressure, no expectation: nothing but good times between friends-to-be. Alright for you?”

Enjolras was a bit taken aback. Earlier, Grantaire had withdrawn and sulked, scared at the mere idea of disappointing Enjolras while getting to know each other. Now he was being carefree about it. Decidedly, this man was a mystery. Enjolras decided to go with it. After all, he was no expert in that kind of things.

“Alright, then we’re on the same wavelength.”

  
***

  
Grantaire decided to bring Enjolras to his home after asking him if it was alright. By the time they got there, his joyful attitude was pretty much gone and he was back to his nervous and sarcastic self. Nevertheless, he opened the passenger door for Enjolras, made sure to tell him that he could leave whenever he wanted to, and even carried his bag. Enjolras did not know what to make of it.

He lived alone on the second floor of a big apartment building. Said apartment was the more colourful place Enjolras had ever seen. It had three rooms and a bathroom, none of them very big, but there were frescos in each of them. Giant paintings, some of them with a concrete subject, such as landscapes, and others with a mess of blues and purples that looked like they were thrown at the wall expertly. They were all absolutely magnificent. Enjolras was an eternal novice when it came to art, but he could tell how much work Grantaire must have put into this. Everywhere he looked at, his eyes met beauty or calculated ugliness. There were so many colours, so many details, so many patterns to observe. When he looked up, Enjolras saw that the ceiling had not been spared. The furniture was a bit more bizarre: Grantaire had two bright yellow foof chairs in his living room instead of a sofa; his television and his computer were both a hot pink; the table in the kitchen was a pale blue, but the chairs were green. Still, it seemed to fit with the worlds twirling around them.

Enjolras was so engrossed in the sights that he let Grantaire take out his coat without protesting. The latter sneered and forced a cough to get his attention. Enjolras grinned at him.

“That’s—”

“Go ahead. There’s nothing I haven’t heard by now. You should see my room, it’s an utter mess. I just get bored.”

“Bored? Grantaire, you are an artist. That’s great!”

“Ah, but you see, I’ve heard that one before. An artist, really? I doubt that you are an art student,” Grantaire retorted, making a face.

“No, but—”

“And most certainly not an art collector, are you?”

“No, I admit it, but—”

“And I would bet anything that you are not even a quarter as passionate about art than you were about, say, the Printemps Érable.”

“You’re being elitist!” let out Enjolras, exasperated. “Does any compliment not made by a certified expert means nothing at all? I was being sincere.”

“That’s what it is. Sincere good sentiments. But not much to an artist’s ears, I’m afraid. I did not mean to hurt your feelings.”

“I think you are just too used of fighting against any compliment coming your way, I am right?”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” answered Grantaire, shrugging his shoulders. He looked at one of the walls and scrunched his nose. “I think that most ‘artists’ are perfectionist assholes who stubbornly think everyone else hate their work and are just being nice. No matter how pumped someone gets about our work, there’s always the nagging feeling that they’re lying, that they only seek to spare our feelings. We are wired to always aim for better and never reaching it, eternally unquenched and struck by the crushing impression that everything that’s boiling on the inside can never totally make it to the outside. That, or we become unsufferable pretentious douchebags. What do you prefer? An overdose of modesty, or an overdose of self-flattery?”

Enjolras shook his head. He went and sat on one of the foof chair. Then he looked up at Grantaire and smiled. “Well, I might not be an artist, but I’m stubborn too.”

  
***

  
They ended up talking (mostly arguing) for four hours straight. They talked about everything, from art to politics, philosophy and social issues. Grantaire made diner, and they talked some more. Enjolras discovered that Grantaire, deeply, shared a lot of his ideals, but was just not brave enough to stand his ground and fight for them. He preferred to turn to cynicism each time Enjolras talked about a brighter future, or even just side-projects. At times, it got on his nerves and he thought he would get genuinely angry, but Grantaire would have that sheepish, unsure, melancholy face, and it made Enjolras passionately want to convince him that the world could be improved. That Grantaire himself was not as bad as he seemed to think he was, and that he could help.

It was no use that night, though.

When their voices were rising and the tension was becoming palpable, they changed the subject to something a little less heavy. Grantaire was a smoker, so the conversation turned to bad habits. He just mocked Enjolras for his concerns.

“I like smoking,” he simply stated after a laugh.

“Liking something doesn’t make it healthy,” said Enjolras grumpily.

“You’re going to disagree, but I find there’s a healthy side to this little cancer-stick.”

“Oh, really now.”

“Yes. I mean... When I work, I stress all day. When I interact with people, I get anxious. When I think, I get anxious. And if I concentrate on my feelings? Ah, it gets worse. Life is stressing. There’s also all these down-times during which you don’t know what to do with your hands. The heavy silences, the guilt of doing nothing during a pause, the vague uneasy feeling you get when you look at nothing in particular and have nothing to do. It’s that shit that will kill me way before lung cancer. Cigarettes calm me. They’re more than a bad habit, they’re a hobby. A time killer. Something to look at, touch and inhale when you’re vulnerable or feeling like shit.”

Grantaire sported a dreamy, absent look as he talked, like he would be talking even if Enjolras wasn’t there. It’s like he could not stop. In the car, he had been handling conversations just fine, taking and sharing, but here, he would start rambling, going on and on. Perhaps it was a little hypocritical. Enjolras was known for his huge rants, his speeches and his ability to keep a debate going. Nevertheless, he thought of himself as focussed and conscious that there were other people around him. Grantaire looked lost in his own little world, and when he got out of it, he would stare at Enjolras in accusation. Then they would start arguing again about something else.

Enjolras was torn between smiling and frowning. He thought that Grantaire was one odd being. The more time he spent in his presence, the more perplexed he felt. Yet, the interest was growing strong, for some unknown reason.

“Grantaire,” he said, waving at him, “Other people simply get out their phone or their tablet when they have nothing to do. You don’t have to damage your health because you are bored, or I don’t know... staring into the void with the feeling that it’s staring back at you.”

“Oh, nicely Nietzschean. Bit simplistic.” But Grantaire sounded a bit disappointed.

“You would like Nietzche...”

“Of course. I bet you like Rousseau,” Grantaire retorted, and then grinned when Enjolras blushed. “Phones are just as stressing a device as anything else. Sometimes I just want to throw mine against a wall. Smoking doesn’t require much. I like smoking. Social smoking, solitary smoking, smoking after a good beer, smoking while you are waiting outside, smoking after having sex...”

He looked pointedly at Enjolras.

“I would not know about it,” he muttered.

“Well, I may like smoking, but I won’t necessarily encourage you to try it.”

“I meant the sex part.”

There was a pause. Grantaire stared at Enjolras with his lips parted and a shocked expression. Enjolras groaned and furrowed his brows.

“What. Am I supposed to be ashamed, or something?”

He’s been teased about it before. Reaching your twenties without having any sexual experience, nothing more than kissing, was apparently drama-worthy for people. Some of them even got angry with him, because they thought he was against sex in general, and that his celibacy meant that he was judging them for having sex. Courfeyrac had even started pressuring him, back when he was eighteen, and tried to set him up on dates with random guys, all of whom Enjolras ended up detesting. Fortunately, Combeferre had a talk with him and he stopped. He even apologized.

“No,” replied Grantaire, “It’s not a shame to not have sex. From my point of view, it’s really unfortunate, but I’m not you. I’m just surprised, I mean... are you —what do they call it— asexual?”

“What? Well, no, I can experienced sexual attraction.”

“I should not pry, but... then why? You could get anyone.”

Grantaire was still staring at him, but not with a sneer or a leer. He was looking at him like Jehan looked at a poem or a work of art. Like he was taking in each detail, analysing them and growing feverish inside just from looking. Enjolras started squirming under that intense gaze.

“There are a lot of people who showed lust towards me, but I tend not to like them, and I would prefer to do it with someone that genuinely attracts me, not only sexually, but intellectually I guess. It’s rarely the case. Also, sometimes people assume things about me because of my appearance. It’s really aggravating. I was once told that I looked like a fifteen years old girl, which apparently meant that I wanted to be dominated, that I was shallow and that I wanted attention..”

“Well. I guess people like to project onto others, as much as they like projecting their own emotions and impressions onto art. I’m sorry that your good looks have kept you from having a sexual life. Should be the other way around. Doesn’t surprise me that they feel the need to placate you with gender stereotypes. But seriously, you are simply gorgeous.”

Enjolras shrugged. “Perhaps I am. I aspire to be more, though. I wish people would see more than a pretty face when they look at me. Compliments about my appearance always feel a bit... empty and meaningless. No offense.”

“But you have misunderstood me my dear! Of course, you are more than a pretty face! Those are a dime a dozen. Exceptional beauty eventually fades, like flowers, see, and a painting doesn’t last forever. Some try to chase the beauty of things, to capture it, but all they succeed in is to reproduce pale reflections of the real thing. Why? Simply because they forgot that the essence of that thing is what makes it beautiful in the first place! For instance, you, you have your feminine traits, your long golden hair, your red lips and dimples to die for, but what makes all of it fit, it’s the fire in your eyes, the fervour that makes your whole body trembles when you speak, the utter conviction that there’s something good to be done and that you have to do it. That passion, this gaze raised proudly towards the future, perhaps not unafraid, but overflowing with bravery... That’s what makes you gorgeous! You hold such a torch inside, it makes me think that anything could be destroyed and you would be able to rebuild it only by talking!”

Enjolras was not sure that the whole tirade made absolute sense, but he felt infinitely flattered, with something else mixed in the lot. To him, it was Grantaire, gesticulating wildly, that had an intense irresistible fire in his eyes. While talking about him. He cleared his troat and smiled with a newfound shyness.

“Do you always discourse on your friends like that? That’s a lot to take in,” he said, unsure what to add. Clearly, it was not a good thing to say, because Grantaire stopped a movement, went red and withdrawn into himself.

“Oh, you should tell me to shut up when I go too far. Now it’s too late to take back any of it,” he muttered, much to Enjolras’ dismay. Has his speech been unsincere? He doubted it. But Grantaire looked embarrassed and unhappy.

“At risk of seeming like a narcissist, I liked it very much. Way to give my ego a boost. And I don’t want you to shut up,” he offered, but he could not help to ask, “But how do you feel that way after only two meetings?”

Grantaire put his head into his hands and remained silent. Enjolras was starting to panic a little inside. He was not the best at comforting others.

“You know, I don’t believe in love at first sight,” he said, only to regret it the instant the words passed his lips. He added in a hurry “But surely, if I’ve made such an impression, this relationship is worth exploring? We already kissed. Or pecked. What’s a little poetry between new, casual friends?”

“God, you are awful at this.” Grantaire groaned. Enjolras felt a prick of annoyance, but he nodded.

“I am. I’m sorry. But I was moved by what you said and I don’t want you to feel awkward or like you have to hold back. Whatever’s happened that makes us attracted to each other, it must not be bad, no reason to be ashamed. I never had sex, but I’m not a prude.”

“Really,” said Grantaire, shortly, “Easy to say. But I can’t believe you just said—”

Enjolras’ ringphone, ‘Rebellion Lies’, started to erupt into the room. One look at it told him that it was his mother. He rolled his eyes and closed his phone, immediately irritated.

“Wasn’t that important?”

“Nah, just my mother,” Enjolras said dismissively, waving a hand.

“So your mother is not important.”

“You don’t know my mother. She’ll start randomly yelling at me the second I answer her, even though I’ve long past the age for her to worryingly await me at home.”

“That wasn’t really a reproach you know, but okay. Your mom’s a mother hen.”

“Not really. She just dislike disorganization, and for her, not being home at eight unless I’ve told her in advance is being disorderly.” answered Enjolras, sucking his teeth in exasperation. He had avoided thinking about his mother all day. He thought he could get away with it, but here she was. “I better go anyway, so she won’t sulk too much when I get home. You’re not too far from a subway station, are you?”

“Oh, I’ll just drive you. Or you might fall again.” said Grantaire, standing up. He helped Enjolras to his feet.

“Very funny. I’m not that fragile, and I don’t fall every time I go out.”

“Your fall was so spectacular, it gave me the urge to protect you each time I can.”

“How romantic.” Enjolras snorted, but when Grantaire made a move to go get their coats, he got the impulsion to grab him and drop off a kiss on his lips. He grinned at Grantaire’s bewildered expression and was ready to welcome the trail of little kisses that he left on the corner of his mouth. It slowly turned into a real kiss, sweet but a little sloppy. Grantaire had to stand on his toes, but he did not seemed bother or intimidated by that. He cupped Enjolras, face and deepened the kiss, putting some tongue into it, nibbling at Enjolras’ bottom lip. The latter suppressed a moan, warming up, and tried to put his hands around Grantaire’s shoulder. However, Grantaire took them carefully and interlaced their fingers instead. That’s when Enjolras noticed that the man was shaking. Grantaire seemed to notice that Enjolras noticed, so he let go and took a step backward. However, Enjolras was not letting him go that easily. He stepped forward and immediately kissed him again. Then he mouthed at his chin, like he saw Courfeyrac do with some girls, which made her whine.

“It’s okay to look a little vulnerable, I won’t—”

“I’ll go get our coats,” Grantaire cut him out. He clumsily made a move to go. Enjolras let him.

  
***

  
Grantaire stopped the car in front of Enjolras’ home, whistling. Enjolras rolled his eyes, but he leaned towards his new friend and kissed him goodbye. Three times. They had kissed each time Grantaire had to stop at a red light, sometimes even at stops. If they had remained at Grantaire’s place, they would not be able to keep their hands off of each other. Or so Enjolras liked to think, because there was still this air to Grantaire, like he was holding back, hiding something. Made sense: they barely knew each other, after all. But the tenderness in Grantaire’s eyes was addictive nonetheless.

“Well. That was a very nice evening Enjolras. I’m glad you followed me, despite what your mother probably told you about strangers,” Grantaire said, smiling awkwardly.

“I’m glad I came too.”

“You did not come yet.”

There was a pause, during which Grantaire grinned like an idiot and Enjolras was torn between scowling and laughing. He patted Grantaire’s leg. “Keeping that for another time.”

Grantaire quivered, joy laced with some sort of worry in his eyes. “Also, thank you for listening to me rambling about random subjects. You seemed like you were going to get angry a few times, but like you were having fun too. Which is strange. Normally, people just straight up get annoyed.”

“Jehan told me that I ranted about you for an hour last year,” blurted Enjolras, “I’m sorry about not remembering you. I should have.”

“Ah, no, that’s fine, I have a forgettable face.”

“Not at all!”

“Yes, I do. Your visage is a beacon of hope and light; mine is—”

“Stop with your grand air of a poet, Gran... Grand air. Grantaire. Grand R.” Enjolras spurted and laughed.

“...what.”

“R. I’m calling you R. R like the air I breath. R, like a bright green reef. Here, have some verses too.”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You like puns. Oh my God. I’m totally an R. I’ll be the R in your Q, because you’re airy and cute.”

They both laughed, almost hysterically. Then Enjolras kissed Grantaire goodbye for a fourth time and promised to text him or call him later.

When he got out of the car, the cold air latch at him, but he did not notice it. He was floating on a little cloud, all thoughts of being distrustful and careful with his handsome stranger evaporated. Unfortunately, he was brought down to Earth fast enough when the front door burst open and he had to stare in the tired, angry eyes of his mother.

“Aurel Enjolras! Get. In. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The name of this chapter can be translated to "As Musician among many others".  
> -The lyrics mean "Where has gone all the people / Who had something to say? / Where put someone in this world / Perhaps we should listen to them"  
> 


	2. Pour ne pas vivre Seul (Courfeyrac)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this one, we follow Courfeyrac as he deals with his friends (old and new), a phobia, and some guy named Marius.

 

**Pour ne pas vivre Seul**

_Pour ne pas vivre seul,_  
 _On se fait des amis,_  
 _Et on les réunit_  
 _Quand vient les soirs d'ennui_  
~Dalida

 

 

“At the end of the day, Enjolras did not get laid,” sighed Courfeyrac, “God laid down the law: the pretty virgin is not to be touched by any scruffy men with ulterior motives. We have to wait for ceremonial bullshit before that’s the case.”

“Thanks, Courf,” said Enjolras, his face impassive, as he kept reading the newspaper. He had mastered the art of filtering and ignoring everything that Courfeyrac ever said when he felt like being outrageous. He looked at Combeferre, who was sitting at the other side of the table, deeply engrossed in a volume about medicine, ignoring him just as superbly. It was the second day of the term, for Christ sake. Sometimes, his friends were no fun.

“Well, it’s not my fault that you come to us with a juicy sexual anecdote, for once, and that there’s nothing sexual about it in the end. I was already bored when I came in, but you are killing me, Angel.”

“Are you saying that I should have had sex so you wouldn’t be bored anymore?”

“Courfeyrac,” intervened Combeferre with a neutral tone, “the purpose of Enjolras’ intimate life is not to entertain you. Besides, I think you have enough on your own. If you are bored, why don’t you go find Juliette.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I see. It’s over between you and her,” said Combeferre, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Ah, you mean the pretty little blonde wannabe singer? It did not work out. She was a little too self-absorbed for my taste.”

Combeferre and Enjolras both actually looked up at him when he said that, unimpressed.

“Hahaha. So if I’m self-centered myself, I can’t find that trait a bit annoying in others? Both of you, get real now. People who are exactly the same usually don’t form a very good couple. So you can stop screaming ‘hypocrite!’ in your heads right now.”

“It’s not that, only last week, you were proclaiming her the woman of your life for the same exact reason,” said Combeferre.

“My dear Hubert, like the idiom says, ‘only the insane won’t change their mind’. Or is it ‘the imbeciles’? Whatever. In the span of the week, she called me a few dozens of times and her favorite subject of conversation was herself, her future career, and how she thought you were both gigantic nerds and that her friends were much better. There’s a lot I can handle, but casually trash-talking my friends as though it means nothing? No, thanks!”

“That is very nice of you, Courf,” said Enjolras. He even patted Courfeyrac on the arm. “I thought you could do better anyway.”

“Enjolras,” warned Combeferre.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive about your break up. She was a good person deep down, I’m sure, but... she was clearly disinterested in anything cause-related.”

Of course. That was the same criticism that Enjolras had to make each time Courfeyrac introduced them to a new lover (which, admittedly, was regularly). Anyone who did not fit the criteria to be part of QUEERBEC, their little group constituted of them three, Jehan and sometimes Bahorel, was not quite good enough for Enjolras. The criteria was basically to be a leftist with aspirations to activism, to have a very socially conscious mind, and to be queer, or at least a real ally —although Enjolras scrutinized those and hassled them so much he scared most of them away. Such people were not found at the corner of each street, and those who did have an interest in their group were not regulars. Enjolras was well-intended, but his background had made him a little picky. And prickly.

“You can talk,” he finally replied, raising an eyebrow, “You went out and kissed the guy who said our cause last year was the fancy of inexperienced idealists.”

“He’s interesting to debate! I got the feeling that he wishes to be convinced,” protested Enjolras.

“Yeah, that’s not the only feeling you got, if you know what I mean...” said Courfeyrac with a grin. Enjolras frowned and his cheeks reddened.

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

Courfeyrac scoffed. “Oh, don’t be like that. I totally respect your choice to pounce on fat little cynics with a devilish smile. Why are you looking at me like that, I did not insult your guy.”

“He’s not that fat, nor that cynical.”

“Does it matter? I’m fat. I even use the word as a compliment.”

“Sure, but it’s not that accurate, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Combeferre? A little help?”

Combeferre looked at Enjolras and shrugged “Please do not offend Courfeyrac with your sudden anal need to be accurate. It sounds like _you do not want_ Grantaire to be fat.”

A cloud of shame passed in Enjolras’ eyes and he stuttered some apologies along with a few words on how he didn’t mean to do a micro-aggression by denying Grantaire’s weight. Courfeyrac was already not listening anymore. He was used to Enjolras’ little missteps here and there, and to his apologies-turned-moralizing speeches. He thought them sweet at first, because Enjolras often felt the need to argue more than the need to apologize, so that made him special, but he grew weary of them after a while. Enjolras’ complex with his privileged situation was a bit boring when it stretched for too long, if Courfeyrac had to admit it.

“Let’s change the subject,” offered Combeferre. “What did your mother say? She called my mother three times to know if you were there, and Courfeyrac twice. My guess is you both entered a screaming match the second you put a foot inside your home.”

“That was an easy one,” sighed Enjolras, “Yes, she let me know that it was highly irresponsible to go out with a stranger without telling her first. I told her that she forgot I was an adult again, and now she’s pouting and awaiting an apology. Thank you both, by the way, for having my back.”

“You told us that you admired truthfulness and courage in people. Well, not only was it the truth that we did not know where you were, but it was brave to tell your mother, the dragon!” dismissed Courfeyrac with a bit of snark. Enjolras swatted his arm, smiling. “Oh, but she’ll know where you are today, because you are coming at my place. Right?”

“Um, no. If I want to reconcile with her, I have to stay home tonight. Also, I promised grandmother Céline to keep her company, God help me.”

“Oh. Well, you’ll be missed, my dear. Combeferre and I are going to have fun, whether you are there or not!”

“Actually,” said Combeferre, a little discomfort showing through his voice, “I got plans of my own. I got some reading to do already, and then I was invited by a classmate to take a beer or two. Please understand, I need to make a few other friends at McGill.”

“Okay, that’s simple. You can invite your new friend at my place. I really don’t mind, and I have alcohol too. Like, probably twenty brands of it. What’s their name?”

“Jean-Luc Joly. We call him Joly since he’s cute and jovial. But listen, Courf, I want to meet with him alone so I can make up my own opinion. You can be a bit...”

“A bit what, Hubert?” pressed Courfeyrac. He was irate, but he knew this was the sudden crushing weight he was feeling. His heart was beating fast. He had other friends to invite, but they all had something that day or were the type to dislike being asked stuff at the last minute. He had to convince Combeferre.

“Invasive? No offense, but the last time I invited you to meet someone, you made them flee.”

“How hurtful! So you are going to make friends behind my back, now? Not introducing me because you are afraid they won’t be able to handle half of my magnificence?”

“Courf is right, ‘Ferre. You’re not being fair.” quipped Enjolras. The pun got him a nasty look from Combeferre, who then proceeded to ignore him to concentrate on Courfeyrac.

“I am not hiding you. I promise. I only think I need some time to assess the guy’s personality before I introduce him to any of you. I would prefer for their opinion to be formed based on my own personality instead of being rejected by association, for once. It would also give me time to... explain you two. Are you going to be okay? You have someone else who could come, right?”

“Unfortunately, I do not think so,” grumbled Courfeyrac. “It’s only the beginning of the term, and everyone is too busy. What the hell has happened to waiting up to the midterms to be unreachable?”

Combeferre bore a slightly guilty expression. Enjolras patted him on the hand again, wanting to be reassuring.

The truth was that Courfeyrac had a phobia. Some people were afraid of crowds, other of spiders; some folks could not go anywhere near water, and some others panicked in the dark. Courfeyrac could not be left alone. The anguish he felt when he was alone for more than a couple of hours was agonizing and had already threw him into panic attacks. He had trouble breathing and thought he was going to die a few times. Perhaps it was the downside of his highly sociable personality, or perhaps it developed because his parents and siblings were often gone for work or vacation, but the mere thought of spending time with no human presence around him triggered abandonment issues and incommensurable sadness. He could get away with walking alone among a crowd of strangers, but he simply couldn’t stay home alone. He had gotten better when he was seeing a therapist, but he still had a long way to go.

“Wow, this sucks. My day is already spoiled,” he muttered, feeling like being coddled. Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged a look in that weird way they had to communicate non-verbally. Now he had to add a bit of jealousy into the mix of emotions that were overtaking him.

“Why don’t you ask Jehan?” proposed Enjolras.

“Jehan has a date, and knowing them, they won’t be home before after midnight and I can’t wait that long. Besides, if I asked they would totally cancel their date for me, which I’m going to feel bad about for days. Oh, and they lost their damn phone. Again.”

“Listen,” started Combeferre, “I’ll go with Joly for a few hours, then I’ll come to your place to sleep. Would that be enough for you?”

“No, no. Don’t ruin your evening. You know me, I have a bottomless hat with little pieces of paper sporting the names of all the people I know who like me. I’ll find someone. I don’t want either of you to think of me as some sort of baby throwing a tamper tantrum when he doesn’t get what he wants.”

“Are you sure, Courf? I could always ask my mother if you could come at ours,” gently said Enjolras. Out of his two best friends, Enjolras was the one who had the hardest time understanding Courfeyrac’s fear. Courfeyrac always thought it was kind of him to make an effort, even though he must have thought it was a bit childish to cling to people in such a manner. Nonetheless, he had to cut him off before he continued.

“Nah, I know that your mother detest when you invite people to sleep. I’ll be fine, I’m telling you. But thanks, Angel. The thought is appreciated.”

  
***

  
He wasn’t going to be fine.

When Courfeyrac had left his two friends at the Musain, he did not lose any second, grabbing his phone so he could hunt someone who’d be glad to spend the night with him. Unfortunately, he was met with the same answer again and again: ‘no, sorry, I can’t today’. He even tried with some of his ex-girlfriends and boyfriends, but they basically laughed at him and hung up, which he might have deserved. He did not always remembered when people were angry at him or why, unless they were very close to him.

Desperate, Courfeyrac tried to call his brother and his sister at their work, but the secretary told him they were busy and not accepting personal calls. She had an exasperated tone too, meaning that if he called back, he would have to be ready for his siblings to growl at his inappropriate behaviour and for his parents to know about it and get worried. Lawyers were always so serious. It made him question his choice to go into the family business, sometimes.

Catherine and Philippe de Courfeyrac were thirteen years older than their younger brother. They were twins, and rather close. They did not always show the understanding and protectiveness that Courfeyrac had hoped they would. Frankly, they resembled their parents: very independent people with perhaps a small lack of emotional intelligence. They thought that affection was to be deserved, or at least given in small doses because any attachment that was too strong would eventually cause problems. Back when Courfeyrac was a teenager, he had told his family about his growing fear of being left alone: they had immediately taken an appointment with a therapist and a psychiatrist, and they stopped mentioning it, except for when Courfeyrac was visibly in pain. Then, they acted frustrated. They were all good people, really. Only, they had few things in common with Courfeyrac, who tried for a long time to live up to their image. Nothing to be done. He was not cold and serene. Combeferre would have fitted that role better.

Never mind. Courfeyrac was not going to give up his quest.

He put away his phone, took Jean-Brillant street and went to Enjolras’ university. He did not enter the wing, but rather went in the outside space between it and the libraries, where he knew that events took place sometimes. Despite the cold, it was packed that day. Students were huddling together, smoking or talking in little groups. Some were actually sitting on benches, reading and ignoring the temperature. So Courfeyrac had a wide range of possibilities: he simply had to make the right choice.

He decided to go with the beautifully tall woman with the brown skin and wide, black eyes who was lazily searching her bag. She was round, and she wore skintight blue jeans under a fluffy white coat. She seemed a little bit older than the average student. She looked like a warm, welcoming person. Perhaps Courfeyrac could get a hook up out of the whole thing. He went to her, trying to get her attention by waving, but she did not see him coming. When she looked up and saw him, she startled and dropped her gigantic blue bag in the snow. He immediately leaned forward to pick it up. He patted the snow away and gave it back to her.

“Thanks! Trying to be a gentleman?” the woman said, laughter in her eyes.

“I do not only aim to try, but to succeed, madame, so you would see in me someone worthy to have a conversation with.”

“No need to be all polite and suave,” she waved him off, smiling. She had cute little dimples, just like Enjolras. “I’m not particularly difficult. Next time, just say hi!”

“Dully noted. Can I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” he asked, grinning at her. She bit her lower lip and turned her gaze to the sky, shrugging. She liked to let the men wait, that one. Testing the waters while not appearing too unfriendly. Courfeyrac could respect that by introducing himself first and moving on if she was still hesitating. “Alright. Well, I am Bellamy De Courfeyrac. My friends call me by my last name to instil some modesty into me. Let’s just forget the “De” is even there, because De Courfeyrac is already taken by my father.”

He offered his hand.

She took it.

She had a strong, confident grip. “I’m Bianca Musichetta. You can use either name. I study comparative literature here. What about you?”

“Oh, I study law at Concordia. Wish I’d chosen theatre, but my heart went to all the poor people I could defend once I become a great lawyer.”

“Your friends were right. You do need to learn some modesty,” Musichetta said, but she was winking.

“My friends take pleasure in always being right. They could afford to be wrong once or twice in a while.”

“Ah, no. We cannot afford it.” said a new voice. An arm slipped around Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “One mistake could very well cause a catastrophe, no matter how small. Who knows? Maybe the world rests on our shoulders. Maybe QUEERBEC is the next step towards liberty, equality and fraternity.”

“Hello, Jehan,” Courfeyrac said before kissing his friend on the cheek. “This is Bianca.”

Jehan nodded. They squeezed Courfeyrac tighter and kissed him too, a dreamy expression on his face. They were wearing pants, today. Polka dots rainbow pants, under his orange parka. Always so eclectic and original.

“I know. We talked. We’re even going to talk some more tonight.”

“Oh! But... I thought you had a wild date tonight?”

“That would be me,” Musichetta said

“Usually, you go for the male tortured souls.”

Courfeyrac was a little disappointed. Out of all the students in the yard, he had to pick the one who was Jehan’s date. Perhaps he should have gone back to his own university, or to Combeferre’s. He was not enough of an asshole to keep trying to flirt with Jehan’s new friend, especially if they intended to keep her for a long time. When Courfeyrac broke up with someone, they tended not to stay around, even if they were getting along with Courfeyrac’s friends.

“Dates don’t have to be sexual,” Jehan retorted.

“Though we just love when they end up being so,” added Musichetta. She was grinning at them, happily surprised, and her gaze upon Courfeyrac was warmer than before. She looked even more self-assured. Seemed like Jehan and her hit it off right away. She trusted them openly. “See, perhaps you and I won’t have sex, Jehan, but sex can still be involved in our plans.”

“I like her, Jehan,” Courfeyrac said, “Let’s adopt her into the group. I know our group and your blog are for the use of us queer folks, but—”

“Oh, I’m queer,” Musichetta cut him off.

“Really? That is wonderful! You’re definitely in, beautiful lady. You and any queer woman —or men!— who gets your fancy!”

“I’m straight though, I’m just not... Anyway, how do you know each other again? You said you were from Concordia. You also seem older than baby Jehan, here,” she quickly changed the subject and ruffled Jehan’s hair. The latter let go of Courfeyrac’s shoulders and hugged her out of the blue, making her laugh. She was so much taller than them.

“Courfeyrac took me under his wing when I started highschool,” Jehan said, “I was being bullied back then. His friend Combeferre lectured some nasty homophobe for me, and then he introduced us and we help each other since then. There’s also Enjolras, but he came in later. We met him on the internet.”

“And what a mesmerizing encounter that was! A real charmer that one. He inspired me to burn a bunch of articles in favour of the charter of values a few weeks ago,” Courfeyrac recalled. He had posted the video on his youtube channel, and Enjolras bought him a pizza as a sign of pride and encouragement.

The anecdote got him a high five from Musichetta.

“Do you always burn documents you disagree with?” she asked, seemingly amazed.

“I try to burn one a month. Also, while I’m against book burnings in general, I’ve reduced a few to ashes.”

“Must be a fan of symbolism, aren’t you?”

“I’m just a man of action, mademoiselle. Which reminds me, I must go back to finding someone to pass the night at my place right now if I want results.”

Jehan gasped and Courfeyrac almost slapped himself. Gingerhead was now looking at him with a mix of horror and pity —which Courfeyrac hated— and Musichetta was raising a brow, perplexed.

“My poor, poor friend! If I had known, I would not have made any plans! I thought you’d be with ‘Ferre and Enjolras! Perhaps you can come with us tonight?”

“What the hell is going on, here?” exclaimed Musichetta, “What, you need to score that bad?”

“No, it’s not that—”

“My friend Courfeyrac,” Jehan interrupted, “suffers from a social phobia known as monophobia. He has intense bouts of anxiety when he’s by himself. He can endure it when there are strangers around, but not when he has to sleep in his big house alone. His parents are gone for the week.”

“Wow, thanks Jehan,” Courfeyrac groaned, irritated, “Why don’t you just declare that a little louder so everyone else can hear.”

“Why do you care? It’s not even your university.”

“So? I come nearby to see Enjolras! I don’t want to be known as the weird guy who can’t stand to be left with his own thoughts for more than a few hours. What if I want to hook up with some people in the area? What if Bianca, here, is put off by that fear?”

“Oh, honey, no. It’s important to be yourself. I thought you were proud to be an open book?”

“I’m open, I’m extroverted, but I’m not an open book. I’ve got a need for privacy too.”

“Searching a stranger to spend the night with you, I’d say that your sense of privacy is not that strong, but if it can make you feel better, I’m not judging you,” said Musichetta. She smiled reassuringly at him. “I have weird phobias too, and I know how it can make people laugh, but irrational fears are part of life, they’re common and we should not be ashamed of them. It’s not your fault, after all. You can come with us, if you need to.”

Courfeyrac put his hand on Musichetta’s shoulder and stood on his tiptoes to kiss her forehead. She blinked, perplexed, but she did not shy away.

“Thank you, miss. I hate to impose myself on you two, though.”

“Oh, please,” said Jehan, rolling their eyes, but smiling, “You are ecstatic and relieved right now.”

“Perhaps, but I wish I’d have find someone else. Being so dependent on you guys must not be a good thing. My siblings keep telling me to let you breath a little. Doesn’t make me feel too proud. Plus, I like a challenge, though I am glad that you’d let me go with you.”

“Of course I’m letting you come, you idiot!” exclaimed Jehan, indignation weighing on each word, “I’m not going to leave you all alone. What are friends for?”

Jean Prouvaire was a saint, and nothing could change Courfeyrac’s mind about that.

“If you like a challenge... maybe I got something for you,” said Musichetta. She appeared to be hesitating, but there was maliciousness in her eyes and in her tone of voice.

“I’m listening,” said Courfeyrac.

“There’s a guy living in the women’s restroom of the fourth floor of the library. That one, right there,” she pointed to the building behind them. “I think he got kicked out, or perhaps he ran away? Anyway. He looked lost as hell. He refused to tell me why he chooses to stay in the women’s restroom when he’s not somewhere else, or why he comes here at all. I don’t know where he sleeps either. Actually, I don’t even know if he’s still there, but he was there this morning.”

“You found a homeless guy on a toilet? That’s... That should go in the ‘weird fact of the day’ of the QUEERBEC blog. You did not think of inviting him home?”

“He’s a weird man hiding in a women’s restroom,” she said slowly, as though Courfeyrac was just a stupid man. Maybe he was. “He might very well be a lunatic. I’m not going to invite him into my home! I care more about my safety than some strange dude’s comfort. Besides, I tried talking to him. He just looked terrified and mumbled unintelligible things.”

She looked at Jehan, and they gave her the approval that she wanted. Courfeyrac nodded, showing he understood what she was saying. However, he was hoping that the guy in question was not a lunatic, because his curiosity was piqued. He decidedly wanted to see what that toilet squatter looked like. Actually, he wanted to know what A toilet squatter would look like, period. There was also the fact that Courfeyrac tended to develop sudden, deep affection for bizarre beings who did not react to situations the way a commoner would. Even when he had not actually met them.

“Musichetta, mi bella, what did you say this guy’s name was again?”

“He never mentioned it, but I heard a girl call after him once. She said, and I quote ‘Pontmercy, would you stop Pontmercying’. He retorted that he could not help it because he was at the mercy of his name.”

Courfeyrac felt like he already liked the guy.

 

  
***

  
Courfeyrac left Jehan and Musichetta, promising to text if something went wrong. They proposed to go with him, but Courfeyrac thought that they would probably scare the guy to death. It seemed like he was already intimidated enough by Musichetta as it was. He needed to be smooth, to win him over slowly. Like that fox in Le Petit Prince. He still had to whine a lot for Jehan to accept letting him go alone.

When he opened the door of the infamous restroom on the fourth floor were four stalls, on of them was closed and he could see a pair of crossed feet. There was a girl at the sinks, and she startled when she saw him, throwing him a nasty look. Her brown coat was zipped down, letting him see that she was dressed in a waitress uniform. Her brown hair looked dirty, and they were tied into a messy ponytail. She had wild, angry brown eyes, and when she stared at Courfeyrac, he swore she could have change him into stone, had she wanted to. She actually showed her teeth at him and _barked_. Courfeyrac took a step back, noticing how some of her teeth were missing. Perhaps from a fight. Why did this place attract so many loonies?

“Girls bathroom!” snarled the woman. Her voice was deep, and her tone was cutting.

“Well, what is HE doing here, then?” he pointed at the two feet. He heard a muffled sound and Pontmercy dropped a book on the floor. The woman rolled her eyes and sighed. Pontmercy apologized in a meek, strangled voice.

Courfeyrac made a move to approach the stall, but the woman put herself between it and Courfeyrac, a determined expression on her face.

“You’re not security. He’s not bothering anyone here or trying to glimpse at women’s panties. So leave him the fuck alone!”

“Éponine!”

“You have misunderstood me, Miss. I did not mean to sound like I wanted to harass him. I simply got the word that some strange being was haunting the women’s restroom of the fourth floor and I came, transported by my ever growing curiosity.”

“Well, you saw him. Now you can scram,” pointed out Éponine, her hands going on her hips. She puffed her chest in an attempt to look taller and stronger.

“Éponine! Please!”

Courfeyrac made a ‘tutut’ sound. “Technically, I did not saw him. I saw two feet. These could be the feet of a woman, for all I know!”

“You know perfectly well that this is the man you’ve heard about!” Éponine yelled. She took a step forward and stabbed Courfeyrac’s chest with her finger. “You come here like he’s a circus attraction, because it’s funny to you that someone has problems.” She stabbed again. “You think that you’re entitled to see him, because you’re the kind of rich asshole who’s used to get everything he wants.” And a third time. “Well, I got news for you: he’ll get out when he chooses to get out. Leave. Now!”

Courfeyrac was seriously starting to get a little pissed off with her attitude. Never had he met someone so rude and tactless in his life, and he had met one André Bahorel, who once threw a beer bottle at a guy who kept making snarky racist remarks about Combeferre, while his friend Feuilly yelled German —was it German?— insults at the same guy. That’s how they met them a few years ago.

Normally, Courfeyrac would encourage that kind of protective behaviour in a friend, but the girl had been quick to throw accusations his way. Then he realized that perhaps he wasn’t the first entitled student who came to see Pontmercy. No matter how hard people try to tell you that it gets better in college, some bullies only grew up to be bullies, and it would not surprise Courfeyrac if people had come to mock the poor guy.

Still. Pontmercy did not have to stay there. And Courfeyrac pointed that out.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to be here either. There are a lot of restrooms in that fucking place,” was Éponine’s answer. Meanwhile, Pontmercy tried to get back his book. Courfeyrac cast a glance at the cover. It was the new book written by the man considered the leader of the students during the Printemps Érable. He snorted, and Pontmercy dropped the book again.

“Aw, take care not to drop it in the toilet next time, my dear. It’s a good book. Be proud of being a red square.”

It was Éponine’s turn to snort and Pontmercy let out a ‘err’ sound, embarrassed. He fumbled with what must have been his bag and a white, freckled hand appeared under the stall door. It was holding a green square, the symbol of the students that were against the protests last year. Courfeyrac frowned.

“Oh,” he said.

“Disappointed?” Éponine sneered.

“Not exactly, just surprised. I thought you guys were a myth financed by the government, or something. What about you, missing teeth, green or red?”

Éponine’s hand went to her mouth and she shot him a dark, menacing glare. She knew how to make someone feel unwelcomed, but she still had self-esteem issues of her own.

“Actually, I’m not a student. I don’t really give a shit either way,” she said, staring at him straight in the eyes, defying him to give her a reproach. Instead, he asked her what she was doing here. “What do you think? I’m here for that dumbass here.”

“But I don’t get it!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, “If you’re his friend, and he’s homeless, why does he have to live into a restroom? Why not on your couch? What is the mystery behind that oddity? Is that what they call ‘Pontmercying’? Being extremely random and illogical?”

Éponine threw her head back and bursted into laughter. Pontmercy stammered some uncomprehensible protesting words. Then, Courfeyrac heard the door of the stall being opened, and a gangly human being burst out of it. He had big jug ears, messy reddish brown hair and about a million of freckles splintered on every visible part of his body. Everything about him was long: his face, his limbs, his fingers. He had the wide eyes of a panicky doe. He was not really handsome, and absolutely boyish in his looks. Courfeyrac was going to drown into that amount of adorableness. And when Pontmercy shouted “My name is Marius!” while pointing at him in the most ridiculous way, he thought he was going to die of laughter as well.

Éponine gave up her tough attitude, the time to take a stunned look at her friend and laugh even harder then before. She was wheezing and coughing in the end, her snickers the only sounds in the room. Marius was trembling, the tip of his ears getting redder by the second, and Courfeyrac was blushing too, as he tried to spare the guy his own hysterical laughter.

“I’m so–so–sorry!” he sputtered between bouts of laughs. Marius awkwardly put down his arm and looked elsewhere.

“Also,” he muttered while wrinkling his hands, “I’m not necessarily a green square anymore. I don’t know what to believe half the time, now. So I thought I would read more.”

“I s-see...” Courfeyrac said, calming down, “You do look a bit lost. May I ask what happened to you?”

“You don’t have to answer him, Marius,” said Éponine, who had calmed down as well. Her tone was less aggressive, but her gaze wasn’t less distrusting. Marius shrugged and crossed his arms —he looked like he did not know what to do with them— dancing from one foot to the other. He had trouble looking at Courfeyrac in the eye, but he was clearly measuring if he should say anything. For him, and for Éponine, Courfeyrac was the weird one.

“I don’t know if I should say anything.”

“Then, don’t,” Éponine said brusquely. Marius cast her an exasperated glance.

“Thank you, but I can take that decision, Éponine. He does not look like he wants me harm. Do you?” he asked Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac was a bit bewildered. Did Marius really expect that if someone ‘wanted him harm’, they would just say so? Perhaps bullies these days were a little more honest than what Courfeyrac remembered. Or perhaps that Marius Pontmercy was incredibly naive. He did look as though he thought he said something stupid, though. One thing for sure, he was a very self-conscious person.

“No, I mean no harm. I admit that the first reason I came here is that I was insanely curious, but mostly I wanted to see if I could help. The presence of your friend surprised me.”

Éponine bit her lips to keep in the cutting remarks she had in store. She still smirked at Courfeyrac and bulged her eyes.

“Oh, by the way, I’m not homeless either!” Marius cried out, “I... occupy Éponine’s couch. It is true that I came here the first day I was out of my grandfather’s place, but she followed me and offered me a place to stay. I just hate to bother her, and to squat her place while she’s at work. So coming here is a temporary habit. I know this is supposed to be for the girls, but I did not look carefully the first time and... well. I feel more secured here? It’s going to sound completely absurd, but I always felt at ease in bathrooms and restrooms. So I come to read here instead of with everyone else outside.”

Courfeyrac tried to process all of the information. The only thing he got out of it was that Marius Pontmercy was one adorable, highly amusing weirdo. A weirdo who needed help. He smiled at him reassuringly and nodded. Then he took his phone from the pocket of his coat and texted Jehan.

“No worry,” he said when Éponine looked like she was going to protest, “I’m just telling a friend that I’m buying you two dinner.”

 

  
***

  
Éponine Thénardier and Marius Pontmercy were one bizarre duo. She was brash, opinionated and quick to bark; he was shy, unsure of his slightest move and prone to indignation and shame. She was loud; he was soft. She was rough at the edges; he was delicate without being feminine. Most of all, though, she was very protective of him, while he seemed to be embarrassed or oblivious to it. Courfeyrac smelt future drama in the air.

At first, they did not accept his offer to buy them food, but it did not take much convincing. Apparently, they were both starving, because they dug into their plate of spaghetti wolfishly, and ate two deserts each. Courfeyrac basically talked with himself for the first ten minutes, suffering snarky remarks from Éponine. However, as time passed, she withdrawn as Marius became more talkative, leaving him more and more space in the conversation. By the time Courfeyrac was done eating, Marius was the one talking to himself.

In the course of half an hour, Courfeyrac learned that Marius had a fight with his grandfather about familial affairs, that he stubbornly refused to take money from his grandmother so he could rent an apartment, that he wanted to find a job so he could be independent and pay his studies in translation next year without having too much debt. At nineteen, he already spoke four languages, which he hoped would help him.

Nothing much was said about Éponine, apart that her father helped Marius’ father once and that she met him when he went to her parents’ place to thank them. According to Éponine, they did not particularly care for his gratitude since he did not have any money to give them, but Marius said that they must have been shy —to which his friend rolled her eyes and groaned.

“So, you have been living together for a few days,” Courfeyrac said.

“It’s really temporary. Éponine only have two rooms and a bathroom, and her landlord has no patience for visiting people because the walls are like cardboard and she says she hears everything.”

“She thinks we’ll have sex and disturb all my neighbours,” said Éponine with a tone she clearly wanted to be casual, but she was watching out for Marius’ reaction. He went completely red, as Courfeyrac thought he would.

“Oh! That’s what she think? Maybe I should tell her that my intentions are noble and—”

“She won’t believe you, Marius.” Éponine cut him off, looking a bit irritated.

“That seems very inconvenient.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” Éponine shrugged him off.

“But it bothers your landlord. And Marius, here,” retorted Courfeyrac. “Plus, having a second mouth to feed is a bit of a burden, isn’t? You are a waitress. Not the most paying job, I gather?”

“I do just fine!” she exclaimed, insulted. Her hands gripped the table tightly. Courfeyrac got the feeling that, has Marius not been there the whole time, he’d had been slapped silly by this fiery woman.

“Calm down. There is no dumb profession, only dumb pay. What I’m getting at is that, if you wanted more space, Marius, my home is big. I live in a house too, so no need to be careful. Oh, and I live with my parents, but they’re not often there, and they never minded when I invited friends. Of course, you are welcome too, Éponine.”

She looked at him with a mix of amazement and resentment. Perhaps she did not like the prospect of Marius living in a stranger’s home. Or perhaps she did not want Marius away from her. She was not being particularly subtle, even though Marius seemed blind to her protectiveness.

“We don’t even know you,” she simply said. She appeared to realize that she was talking for Marius, but he did not balk, so she went on. “Come to think of it, you did not even give us your name. Why would you offer him a place to stay? And why should he say yes?”

“My name is Bellamy De Courfeyrac,” he said, taking care of looking at Marius so he would not feel excluded from a conversation that concerned him, “My friends call me Courfeyrac. I offer you a place, Marius, because I’m kind like that. Or, if you prefer to not believe me when I say that, because I abhor staying alone in a big empty house. He should say yes, because making new friends is important, and because since I probably have more free time than you, who’s probably supposed to be at work, I could help him find a job.”

“Bellamy?” Marius said, “What an exciting name! Not too common! It sounds like Old French. Are you French? My mother had French roots!”

“Marius,” Éponine said patiently, “We’re in Quebec. Most people here have French roots.”

“Ah, but I am French, though,” Courfeyrac acquiesced, delighted, “Well, I was born here, but I have family in France. I went there last summer! I can even talk with an accent, if I want to.”

“Wow. How awesome. Good for you,” Éponine said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. Courfeyrac and Marius ignored her.

“Courfeyrac!” Marius cried, suddenly standing up. “Thank you for being a comprehensive friend. I will think about your offer, and will judge if you seem or not like a dangerous maniac I should avoid.”

Courfeyrac and Éponine let out a laugh. Humour was a bit lacking in Éponine’s.

“Ma-May I have your number? Or perhaps your address?” demanded Marius shyly.

Courfeyrac laughed and nodded. He watched Marius rummage through his bag in search of a piece of paper and a pen, thinking he could probably become friends with a guy like him. Sort of a mentor, maybe. He glanced at Éponine. He was less sure about her. She was constantly on her guard and she did not look please with him at all. She watched like a vulture as he wrote his number and his address on the paper Marius gave him.

“You know Marius, I don’t think this is a very good idea. You don’t know what this guy’s deal is. Who gives off his address like that? Perhaps he wants to fondle you in your sleep.”

Courfeyrac made a face and stared at her. She held hid gaze, showing no fear. Marius took half a minute to think about it. His mouth formed a big ‘O’, as if he just realized something and was starting to observe Courfeyrac under a new light.

“Oh! You are a gay?” he said, before smiling tentatively. Éponine slapped her forehead and Courfeyrac looked around them to make sure nobody had heard that. Then he let out a small laugh.

“No. I do sleep with guys, from time to time. I would qualify myself of bisexual. But honey, don’t say ‘a’ gay. That’s a little... inappropriate.”

“Ah! I’m sorry. I did not mean anything by it. I do not know much queer people. But I love them! I like you! I mean, you seem very sympathetic. My grandpa is homophobic, but he’s a liar, and I don’t buy into his lies anymore. Anyway. Enchanté!”

 _Enjolras would get enraged if I brought this guy to a meeting_ , thought Courfeyrac, _He’s perfect_!

Contrary to his friend, who thought people ought to do part of their research by themselves and not be jerks about their ignorance, Courfeyrac loved to educate people. As long as they were not being downright assholes, he was amused by the confusion and the consternation people could get into when confronted about their opinions. When he was a kid, he wanted to be a teacher. No one was really eager to be dragged by the hand to an improvised classroom to get lectured, though. Something told him that Marius would be different.

“Please, don’t say queer Marius.”

“You should make him a list of the words you don’t want him to say, because he’s going to forget everything,” quipped Éponine. Marius grimaced and nodded.

“I am forgetful,” he admitted, “Not offending anyone is not an art I have mastered.”

“No one ever does. At least, you are polite about it. Listen, I’m not going to fondle you. I always ask for consent before I fondle someone. I just have... when I say that I hate staying alone, I mean that in a phobic way. It would help me if you came. And you’re still invited too, Éponine!”

“Sorry, dude, but I don’t babysit strangers, and I don’t feel responsible for your issues. You could always buy the services of a prostitute, or talk on the phone until you faint. Or the internet. I just can’t go.”

“I understand, Miss! One day, perhaps I can win your trust, but today is not the day. What about you, Marius?”

“Oh, I—”

That is when somebody planted themself next to Courfeyrac and grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him. He jumped, almost let out a scream, and got up on his feet, ready to fight. It was Musichetta. She looked pale, and anger was filling her bulging eyes. Courfeyrac wondered what he’d done when he noticed that Jehan was missing. There was snow in Musichetta’s dishevelled hair and a bit of dirt on her white coat.

“What happened?” he asked.

“It’s Jehan.”

  
***

As it turned out, someone decided that Jehan was a pretty girl, came on to him, panicked when Jehan said they weren’t exactly a girl, and punched him in the face. Then the asshole fled, leaving Jehan unconscious. The guy probably meant to break his nose, or perhaps it was a ‘pur of the moment’ thing, but he did more damage than he thought he would, because he swung at Jehan’s temple, and Jehan hit his head on a plate of ice. Hard. He wasn’t lucky like Enjolras, who was fine a few minute after his fall the day before, and he fainted. Someone called an ambulance. Courfeyrac went inside, abandoning Éponine, Marius and Musichetta behind. They headed for the hospital.

There, Courfeyrac was told that Jehan might have a concussion and that they were keeping him under observation until next morning. Courfeyrac asked if he could stay past the hours of visit, but they told him no, because he was not a family member. Frustrated, he got out his phone and texted Combeferre and Enjolras.

_[Mr. Ferre]: He punched them just like that? What an asshole. I can cancel my evening with Joly._

_[Courf]: no im already here dont bother. its just a concussion. you can go see him tomorrow before your 1rst class._

_[Angel]: Cant come now, but pls give me news when you get some_

_[Courf]: sure will xox_

He did not have Musichetta’s phone number, so she’d have to come and see her friend herself. He thought about calling Jehan’s parents, but he wondered if it was his decision to make. Jehan’s relationship with their parents was a little strained. Though they were far from being mean, they never seemed to know what to say to their son. He did text Jehan’s sister, though. Little Isabelle was fourteen and she was Jehan’s pride. She was always smiling, and she often came to help her brother taking care of the numerous plants in their apartment. She also seemed to enjoy Jehan’s divagations about the little things and their aspiration to be a poet. One could say they were very close, unlike Courfeyrac and his own siblings.

Her reaction was, obviously, to ask him more information and to wail textually at him because her parents refused to let her go to the hospital. He had to send her a dozen messages about how Jehan was going to be okay and that he was in no real danger.

He sighed, feeling the weight of a sudden tiredness that probably had to do with all the worrying he’d done in the span of the last few hours. He went to Jehan’s room where he finally found them awake.

Jehan asked him three times what happened to them.

“I feel a bit dizzy with a headache,” they said, “and I have vomited while you were on the phone, but otherwise I feel fine. Must not be that serious. You know, I do not even remember being punched. I remember a face deteriorating into something ugly, pain on the side of my head, and then the whiteness of the sky. After that, total black hole. I wonder if it’ll be the same when I die.”

Jehan had this weird fascination with death that everyone else thought was morbid and unhealthy. Death was everywhere in their writing. They talked about it with dreamy eyes and a serene tone. Combeferre suggested that people developed different coping mechanisms, and that getting close to an object of fear, getting to know about it, was one of these mechanisms. Jehan had not confirmed or dismissed it. Courfeyrac saw it as an artist quirk.

“Don’t talk about death in an hospital, darling, it’s bad luck,” he gently scolded. “Seriously, you scared the hell out of Musichetta. She’s still isn’t here, by the way.”

“She will come,” Jehan answered, a touch of sadness in their tone. “I’m afraid you two will have to go on a date without me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, dear. You should absolutely report that scumbag who punched you. What a dick. What an insecure, little penis. Doom on his loathsome heterosexist, gender-essentialist face!”

Jehan snorted. “You sound almost like Enjolras.”

“Ah, but would Enjolras propose you to find that idiot and introduce him to Bahorel?”

“Please, leave Bahorel out of it. I haven’t seen him in a while. I think he went on a road trip and hasn’t come back yet.”

“Alright. But you should really report that guy.”

“Oh, you know, I don’t want more trouble than necessary. It was an instinctive reaction. I won’t let it hurt my feelings.”

“It’s not your feelings that are hurt right now, Jehan...” when his friend seemed like they were going to argue some more, Courfeyrac decided to change the subject. He talked about Enjolras and Grantaire, and then about Marius and Éponine, which of course piqued Jehan’s interest immediately. They even encouraged Courfeyrac to meet the guy again.

“That’s really nice! Enjolras had a nice encounter, and now so did you! I always said there was more love in the cold air of Winter than people thought.”

“Jehan, I’m not in love,” denied Courfeyrac. “Neither is Enjolras. This is lust, and curiosity.”

“I don’t think you are the best person to talk about love, Courf.”

“Neither are you. But we sure can talk about lust.”

They exchanged a smile, feeling like two accomplices.

After a while, Musichetta came in with coffees. She practically threw them at Courfeyrac so she could pounce on Jehan, hugging them tightly and kissing them on the forehead.

“How is it going?” she asked.

“I’ll be alright, but I must sleep here tonight. They said they were going to check up on me regularly, and if everything’s swell, I’ll be leaving tomorrow. Tell me, was my prettiness affected at all by the punch?”

Musichetta laughed, worry slowly dissipating from her features. “No. A little swollen, nothing that will leave you disfigured. You’re still the cutest of the cute. Aren’t they, Courfeyrac?”

“Oh, it’s not a little punch that will dethrone my Jehan from their place as cutest-friend-ever.”

Jehan blushed and vented himself, giggling.

“Courfeyrac, can I talk to you alone?” Musichetta asked out of the blue.

“Ah, um, yes?”

They went in the corridor. Courfeyrac gave her one of the coffees back and drank from his. She smiled at him, but it was a bit forced.

“I hate to do that to you... but while I came here, I got a call from my father. His barista is really sick and he has no replacement at the Musain, so I won’t be able to make it for our date. I hope that you can find someone else, but if not—”

“I’ll be with Pontmercy,” lied Courfeyrac. “He agreed to come at my place. His name is actually Marius Pontmercy, and he’s a nice fellow. Apparently, he just really likes to read in restrooms or bathrooms in his spare time. He’ll probably use mine, from now on.”

He felt bad about lying to his new friend, but he did not want her to worry for him. He had to get over his fear, one day or another. Today was the day, it seemed. He would not seek another stranger. He was tired, and rather unlucky that day anyway.

“Also, you said Musain? Your father owns the Musain?”

“Yes, why?” Musichetta asked.

“I’m practically always there with my friends! We go on the second floor to study, talk, hold meetings... Like we’ve told you, we have this little project called QUEERBEC, and the Musain is where we like to plan our battle plans. Sympathetic place. How come I never saw you there?”

“Oh, I don’t work here often. I worked at a bookstore before, and now I’m a student again. I just take shifts when my parents really need a hand.”

“Ah well, next time, come and say hi!”

“Oh, I will,” she said. “And Courfeyrac? It was a pleasure to meet you.” Her smile was at last reaching her eyes. She was truly beautiful. She made Courfeyrac believe that the night was going to pass on just fine.

“Aw, that’s sweet of you to say. You seem like a great person yourself! Come, let’s return to our pretty little Prouvaire.”

  
***

  
The first sign of a panic attack appeared two hours after Courfeyrac came back from the hospital. He had locked all the doors of his house. He had also turned on all the lights, the electricity bill and the opinion of Combeferre on over-consumption be damned, and he had planted himself before the TV. Watching people interact sometimes helped even if they weren’t really there. It did not help for long, though, and Courfeyrac soon began talking to himself, his hands balled into tight fists.

Over the course of the years, he had tried meditation, relaxation techniques, Tai Chi and cognitive behavioural therapy. They had lessened his phobia to diverse degrees, but the beast wouldn’t let go. He refused to take medication, because he knew that while nothing beat sleeping pills, that wouldn’t cure his fear. He would just be stuck getting addicted to some meds on top of being phobic. In moments like these, he often wondered why he stopped going to therapy. Perhaps it had made him feel cowardly and defeated. Perhaps he did not particularly care about his therapist. Perhaps he felt ashamed each time his parents cast him a worried or irritated look, making him want to hurry the process. Perhaps he should just go back.

A few minutes passed, and Courfeyrac was running out of things to tell himself. He could always text one of his friends, or go on the internet until he passed out, like Éponine had said. The problem was, he would not be able to pass out. He had already tried before and it had messed up his sleeping schedule. Besides, Combeferre was probably still with Joly, and Enjolras was stuck with his family, who would get unnerved if he spent too much time on his phone or computer. Jehan did not have his phone with him at the hospital. Musichetta’s shift ended at eleven thirty, so in an hour. Bahorel was probably busy coming home or something. He did not know if his roommate Feuilly even owned a phone. Everyone else would scream at him and hung up. He thought about calling his siblings, but he did not want to face their impatience or derision right now.

What else was there to be done? Perhaps he could go out. Just for one night. In a bar, trying to find a hook up. It could be easy. He could find a sex worker and bring her home, but that would involve using his parents’ money to keep her here. They would know. They wouldn’t approve. They had nothing against sex workers, but they disapproved of “unnecessary spendings”, even though what they deemed unnecessary was random and boggled Courfeyrac’s mind.

Courfeyrac’s attention span was starting to go crazy. He was hearing all the little noises of the house and house appliances. He turned up the volume of the television, but not hearing what was going on around him was even worst. He was starting to sweat heavily when he heard someone knock at the front door. Then the bell rang three times. Courfeyrac tensed.

What came with monophobia were a free packet of seemingly unrelated anxieties. When Courfeyrac was alone, he did not feel safe. He was afraid of having an accident and no one coming to his aid. He feared house fire, and home invasions. He shivered at the thought of ghosts. Anything. Things that he could confront perfectly well when he was in the company of others, but couldn’t bear to imagine when he was alone. He also felt lonely, but mostly stupid.

He took the time to take a baseball bat from a closet before approaching the front door, on which someone was knocking some sort of melody. He looked through the peep-hole, his hand going to the doorknob, and was shocked to see a familiar face on the other side.

Courfeyrac hurried to unlock and open the door, and when he saw Marius on the other side, his eyes swelled with tears of gratitude. A great sense of relief overcame him. He was torn between embracing the man, and slapping him for not calling and telling him he was coming. It was Marius who made the first move, stumbling towards Courfeyrac with a big dopey smile stretching his lips. He hugged Courfeyrac tightly, and the latter patted his hair, as though they were long-time friends. Marius smelled like alcohol. And then, he said:

“I’ve come to sleep with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The translation for this chapter's title is "So we don't live alone".  
> -The translation for the lyrics is "So we don't live alone / We are making friends / And we reunite them / When comes the boring (or melancholy) nights  
> -"Bellamy" means "Handsome friend". It is Old French.  
> -"Hubert" means "Shining Intellect".  
> -"Bianca" is a variant of "Blanche". It's Italian.  
> -"Viateur" means "Traveler through life"  
> -"Aurel" means "Golden"


	3. Notre Dame du Bon Conseil (Combeferre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Combeferre is an observer prone to retrospect who gets bouts of sadness that he cannot explain to himself. Or to anyone.

 

**Notre Dame du Bon Conseil**

_J’espère qu’il y a quelqu’un qui veille,_  
 _À Notre Dame du Bon Conseil_  
~Mes Aïeux

 

At first glance, Hubert Combeferre wasn’t the kind of person to ditch a class. He was a studious man who took his education seriously and who had a thirst for knowledge. This had been the case since his tender childhood, during which he was his teachers’ pride. Each time there was a teacher-parent reunion, they would gloat about how life would be so much easier if all Combeferre’s classmates had his temperament and intelligence. Combeferre would wrinkle his nose at the praise and look at his mother, who would then smile and wink at him. She was the only one who knew that her son was going to grow up into a trouble maker.

Of course, Combeferre did not get into fights or brawls; he did not pull petty pranks on people he disliked; he did not catcall at girls, nor was he impolite to anyone. Combeferre was another kind of troublemaker. The one who attracts trouble because he cared. Needless to say, it was one of the reasons why he got along just fine with Enjolras, but where Enjolras’ passion overflowed in bursts of anger, Combeferre was all patience and kindness. Which is why he skipped a class to go see his friend Jean Prouvaire, and why he convinced his colleague Joly and a guy named Lesgle to come with him. The latter had a car, Combeferre did not. He was a cyclist, mostly, but you don’t go far with an injured person on your small bicycle.

Jean-Luc Joly was in the same program than Combeferre. He still looked like a teenager, and sometimes acted like one, but was very mature deep-down. He was the shortest guy Combeferre had seen to date, and also the nicest, most joyful person. Sometimes, he bounced on his feet excitedly, or squealed at the thought of something. He was an anxious person, but clung to happiness like his life depended on it.

Didier Lesgle was pretty much Joly’s figurative siamese twin. Where Joly was, Bossuet went too, and if he couldn’t follow, they texted each other every five minutes or so. He was a good-looking fellow, with darker skin than Combeferre, who was already balding at the age of twenty-four. He was not a student anymore, due to pitiful unlucky circumstances, but it appeared he never left the student lifestyle behind.

Joly approached Combeferre in a class and immediately started talking to him like he was a good friend. He wasn’t deterred by Combeferre’s prolonged silences, his monotone voice or his tendency to look anywhere but in the eyes when he talked. He introduced himself jovially, talked about his friend Bossuet, who called himself like that because he had a natural cyphose and lived near Meaux street. An historical figure named Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet had this nickname of “L’aigle de Meaux”. When Bossuet heard about that fact, he took pleasure in the pun. Combeferre was not a fan of those, but he smiled at Joly nonetheless because he found it hilarious. So would Enjolras, if he ever told him.

Joly talked to Combeferre again at the pause, and even more when the class was over. They ate lunch together. They exchanged their phone numbers. They eventually made plans for the next day. Combeferre did not show it too much, but he was enthralled at the prospect of making new friends. Before Courfeyrac and Enjolras arrived into his life, he did not have too many. People thought he was too serious and austere, which they equated with spoilsport. He had been called everything from boring to pretentious. Then he had met Courfeyrac and Jehan in highschool and they brought a breath of fresh air into his life. Enjolras came last, via a forum of political discussion on the internet.

While it had taken about a year for Combeferre to get used to the eccentric behaviours of Courf and Jehan, he immediately clicked with Enjolras. They understood each other well and seemed to complete each other. When Courfeyrac got his driver license, they did not lose time before going on a road trip to visit their friend in Quebec city. Then Enjolras announced that he and his mother were moving out in Montreal this winter to stay with his sick grandmother. Combeferre was ecstatic. Still, now that they were all starting university, he was worried. He loved his moments of solitude, but he still resented loneliness. Being misunderstood by others, ignored, put into a corner. Reliving his childhood again. He did not doubt that his friends would not abandon him, and that they would not lose contact, but he had to prepare to the eventuality of seeing them less often, even if that was not the case. This is why he empathized so much with Courfeyrac.

So, the fact that Joly had taken a pretty obvious interest in him made him feel flattered and happy. He did not want to waste this chance to integrate another group of friends, so he wouldn’t be stuck alone if his old friends were unavailable. He might have looked like his usual self, studying at a table in the Musain next to Enjolras and Courfeyrac, but he had butterflies in his stomach and could not wait for that evening.

When Courfeyrac discovered that both his friends could not keep him company that night, he visibly shrank on himself and panic showed in his every trait. He made it look less apparent, but he was shaken, and Combeferre cursed because he’d probably have to sacrifice his night out for his friend’s sake. Though he would not be proud to admit it, he was glad when Courfeyrac decided to find someone else to watch over him that day.

Nevertheless, the minute Courfeyrac sent him a text telling him about how Jehan had been punched unconscious and was at the hospital, Combeferre nearly ignored his plea to remain where he was and not cancel his evening with Joly. He was seething inside. He guessed that it was the same for Enjolras. Things did not change as much with time as people say they were.

The first time Combeferre met Jehan, he was in 9th grade and Jehan in 8th grade. Jehan had a bubblegum pink shirt and long hair, and they were talking about boy-bands with some girl. It was not long before they attracted the attention of the wannabe-macho boys, who started harassing them, pushing them around while asking them if they were a boy, a girl or an alien. Combeferre spontaneously decided to intervene. He did not punch or kick anyone, like his instincts were telling him to, because violence did not solved much anything in his experience. Instead, he just talked. He refuted every argument, ignored the name-calling and the interruptions, and followed the tiring bullies everywhere, reminding them each instant that what they did was mean, offensive and ignorant.

He’s the one who almost got beaten, and he’s the one who almost got detention for nagging at other students.

It was worth it, though, because the bullies stopped their name-calling and started avoiding him aggressively. He had bored them to death and his fearless attitude had intimidated them. Plus, Combeferre was perceived as tall and muscular at that age. That helped.

Afterwards, he did not know what to do with the crying Jehan who kept thanking him and blabbering about how he was a beautiful knight shadow. So he went to the more popular, sociable Bellamy Courfeyrac, who shared a few of his classes. Courfeyrac spontaneously hugged the both of them, found one of the guys who pushed Jehan and kicked him in the groin. A sort of mini-brawl ensued.

Courfeyrac’s the one who got detention in the end.

Combeferre stubbornly went in the detention local to do his homework next to him as a thank you, and they’ve all been friends ever since. Jehan, though they made multiple other groups of friends with time and became more of Courfeyrac’s friend than Combeferre’s, was an important person.

That’s what he said to Joly and Bossuet when he met them at the pub, not even taking the time to shake hands with Bossuet —he hated shaking hands anyway. He talked more in that moment than he ever talked the previous day. Joly made a worried face and told him to go, but Combeferre was determined to make friends, and Courfeyrac had told him not to derange himself. So instead, he kept his phone nearby and sent Jehan messages via Courfeyrac’s phone. He knew that Courfeyrac wouldn’t leave Jehan’s bedside until the end of the visiting hours. Joly and Bossuet did not seem to mind. The first asked about the symptoms, and how Jehan was reacting, if they were feeling dizzy or queasy. The latter made jokes about how if that happened to him, his head would probably crack like an egg and spilt all of its content.

They seemed to sense that Combeferre was worried and upset, and that his smile and laugh were a bit forced. Joly talked about how he banged his head on a cupboard door once and thought he had to go to the hospital to check for head injuries. Bossuet said that he banged his head many times a week against various surfaces, especially his car hood, because such was his gift in life: his clumsiness. That’s when Combeferre asked if they wanted to ditch whatever they were doing the next morning to go get Jehan.

They agreed.

  
***

  
Introducing Jehan to Joly and Bossuet proved to be a good idea. It made a lot of noise, three talkative people in the same room. After only a few minutes, Jehan and Bossuet were laughing together and talking about their own stories of misfortune. If this was a game, Bossuet was winning. That guy had the silliest things happening to him. Once, he bought a hamburger and went to eat it in a park, where he was chased by a flock of screaming seagulls. Another time, he had to rewrite an entire essay because his dog actually ate it. During the student protests —as he and Joly were red squares too— he got fined for wearing a mask, and again for falling on a police officer without meaning to. When he was young, he was the kid who got his tongue stuck on a pole of metal. Jehan thought that Bossuet would be an inspiring character in a novel or a poem, someone who immediately got the sympathies of the readers. Bossuet laughed and retorted that he was more pathetic than endearing, most of the time, to which Joly smacked him on the arm.

“You know what Courfeyrac said?” asked Jehan candidly, “He proposed to send Bahorel on this guy who hurt me. I thought that by now, you’d have instigated in him the idea of non-violence, ‘Ferre.”

Combeferre shrugged. He tried to have a positive influence on his two friends, but Courfeyrac tended to follow his instincts more than his rational side, and Enjolras, while he believed in peaceful protests and non-violence, was prone to little grudges and bouts of anger. They both used violence when they thought it would serve them.

“Bahorel is still away,” he answered simply, “His friend Feuilly is always working. You don’t know the name of the guy. I don’t think Courfeyrac can do much right now except seeing to your recovery. Still, you should report the guy.”

“I’ll be fine. Nothing like a good punch to trigger my creativity,” Jehan said half-jokingly. Bossuet laughed. “I can’t wait to get back home so I can write about the sensation of hitting a wall, seeing the sky and fading to black.”

Bossuet drove Jehan home, where their sister was waiting for them in her big, fluffy pink coat. Combeferre wasn’t the only one to have failed to his duty to make sure that Jehan was okay: their family too. She probably took the subway, because Combeferre doubted that the Prouvaires were going to bother themselves to go see their son. They liked him better from afar, and as long as his condition wasn’t serious, they were happy just sending him money and seeing him on special occasions. That was not the case of Isabelle.

Jehan thanked Bossuet, saluted Joly and kissed Combeferre on the cheek. They got out and scolded at their sister for waiting outside in the cold instead of waiting after school to visit them. They still took her in their arms and made her spin. Isabelle laughed and hugged her brother tightly. She waved at Combeferre. He waved back.

  
***

  
Combeferre invited his new friends, if he dared calling them that already, to come to his place, planning to skip his afternoon class too. Joly declined, saying he had to go or he would inevitably get late in his studies. Bossuet declined too because he had a work shift starting from noon. So they drove him home and Combeferre found himself alone again. He entered what he called “The Temple of Silence”.

His mother was at work and so was his older brother. However, even if they were home, conversations were rare in this house. It was not that Combeferre had a bad relationship with his family. Au contraire, he had been called a mama’s boy more than once, and he got along with his brother just fine. The Combeferres were simply not talkative people. They were all introverts. Most of the time, when they were all at home, they would eat in silence and attend to their work and hobbies in silence. Sometimes, they put music in the background to show that there were people actually living in the house. They exchanged words when necessary, and once in a while would talk excitedly about something that had happened to them, but mostly they kept to themselves.

Malika Combeferre was an accountant in a little firm. Since she was always good at maths, her parents pushed her in that direction and she followed through docilely. She did not particularly care about her profession, but she was good at it and it allowed her to live a comfortable life. She was a gentle, but strong women and a single mother who took care of her two sons after her husband died when Combeferre was four. What she liked to do was to complete puzzles. She could go at it all day. All kinds of puzzle, from crosswords to 3D puzzles, passing by the Portal games on Pierre’s video game console. Combeferre’s room was actually wallpapered with completed puzzles his mother had decided were worth exposing on the walls. He cherished them.

Pierre Combeferre was an independent man who was never interested in getting into college. He became a waste collector, which Combeferre thought could be a dangerous job. He never bothered leaving home and made himself useful by helping with manual labour. He spent all of his spare time playing video games or watching movies with his headphones on.

As for Hubert Combeferre, the only one who liked his surname enough to use it more than his first name, he read a lot. What he really liked, though, were insects and arachnids.

Combeferre had a huge collection of moths and butterflies, all of which he bought online or caught himself and kept alive until they inevitably died. He also owned a giant ant farm, and he had a pet tarantula named Lloyd. Before he met Courfeyrac and Enjolras, Lloyd was Combeferre’s best friend. She was now eight years old, and still showed no sign of dying anytime soon.

From age thirteen and up, Combeferre had been a fervent admirer of the Insectarium of Montreal. He went there each month, even during the winter, to look at all the exhibitions. It relaxed him. He felt good when he could be around insects and learn or memorize new facts about them. Next, he planned on getting a few sphodromantis viridis, also known as bush mantises, as pets. Those little girls were like ninjas. Once, Combeferre had seen a video of a praying mantis fighting off a cat and he fell in love with the insect.

Combeferre felt as though the vast world underneath his feet was like another family, an alien world to explore. And there were so many species to discover and document. Something to fill up his time with. But it was not all. Sometimes, Combeferre himself felt like an insect. He was not sure if he believed in any deity yet, but he believed that the Earth was not the only inhabited planet in the universe. And their planet was already a lot to deal with, enough to make one feels insignificant at times. Only a microbe stuck in something many billion times huger. It would be hard for one to remain positive with that kind of thoughts harassing them all the time, but Combeferre felt good, all things considered. He felt the same way looking at the stars when he was some place where they were very visible. Somehow, his own insignificance had a reassuring aspect to it. He did not know why. He took his phone and started texting Enjolras, but did not send the text.

_[Combeferre]: Enjolras. Do you ever feel very small?_

  
***

  
On Friday, Combeferre was invited at Courfeyrac’s place. The man had texted him and Enjolras many times to talk about how a guy called Marius was the ‘sweetest guest ever’. It sounded like he was developing another crush, which was habitual behaviour for him. It was good; it meant that Marius managed to kept Courfeyrac’s phobia away. The praises and the fawning were a little annoying, but not much so than usual. Although Enjolras was already losing patience with their friend and told him to stop harassing them about his toilet buddy and to introduce them so they could make their own opinion. That was a little hypocritical, considering that Enjolras would not shut up about Grantaire at least half an hour a day. The first day, he was practically swooning over the guy. Now, he was ranting a lot. The dreamy expression and the flush were the same in each case.

Combeferre could not really help his friends with these matters of the heart. He did not date. He had tried a few times, but had not liked it. The problem were the expectations. People were always expecting him to act a certain way and to want certain things. They also expected him to give in to some of their desires, like doing romantic stuff or having sex. Combeferre did not know how to be romantic, and he sucked at sex. All he could process were the technical parts of it, and he found them gross and funny. It had frustrated his partners, who thought he was laughing at them. So he stopped dating. Besides, all of the people he tried dating were suggestions of Courfeyrac and Jehan. He went with it because he thought that it’d be good to have new experiences, and perhaps a special someone in the process, but it went sour fast enough each time. He guessed that made him asexual. Perhaps even aromantic. Frankly, he cared more about Enjolras and Courfeyrac than any of the people he ever pretended to fancy. _They_ were his special someone.

Courfeyrac’s house was what some people would call a small mansion. His father was a reputed lawyer. His mother was a judge. They both had the money to sustain such a place, which they inherited from rich great-grandparents. The house was often empty, though. Two days a week, employees came to clean the house, and Courfeyrac would chat with them, but a lot of time he had to invite people not to be alone. Combeferre could understand why Courfeyrac panicked alone in there. In fact, Combeferre had the feeling that he could get lost in a house like that. It was so big, and the backyard was just as impressive. A horror movie mansion.

Enjolras was already walking in front of the house, He sported a wide grin while he was looking at his phone. Combeferre rolled his eyes and smiled. He cleared his throat and Enjolras looked up.

“Hello!” he said joyfully, “How’s it going?”

“Mighty fine. Can say the same about you, apparently,” Combeferre answered.

“Oh, I just...” Enjolras put his phone away, “I’m doing good. Still angry about what happened to Jehan, though. He refuses to report the guy at all. I think we should do something bigger anyway.”

“Like a protest or a rally?” asked Combeferre, surprised.

“Perhaps?”

“For a punch? Enjolras—”

“Hear me out. It’s not only about Jehan, it’s about all the others too! Violence against people of the LGBT+ community still happens too many times. We must sensibilize the people to hate crimes and—”

“I’m stopping you right here. Let’s go inside first, where Courfeyrac and I will explain to you why this is a bad idea right now.”

  
***

  
Enjolras seemed to understand how everyone who was ever warm to their group was not in a position to start protests at that time of the year. The student protests of the Printemps Érable was one thing, because it concerned all students, but people would be less appreciative of something that would be perceived as another ‘gay parade’ in a province that was fairly accepting of LGBT+ folks. Everyone who would partake in such an event would get more trouble than good things would happen. Besides, even if Enjolras was gay, he could not speak for the whole community. He was still more privileged than most of them, what with his financial situation. It would be better to do something a little less provocative for the moment, like an article.

“Besides,” Marius Pontmercy said, “Provocation would not win over people to your side anyway. Aren’t nicer methods more preferable? An article to demystify boggus facts about homosexuality and transgenderness, yes; but an article to downright attack the opinion of straight people?”

Enjolras stared at the man in annoyance. “No oppressed group ever went anywhere by being nice to their oppressor,” he said with a cutting tone. “I care more about confronting people and their behaviour to help young LGBT people than I care about the comfort of queerphobic pricks.”

“Shouldn’t you want more straight people to back you up, though?”

“If they need us to coddle them all the time and to pay for their support in niceness, then they’re not really having our back, aren’t they Marius?”

“Enjolras, watch your tone,” Combeferre said.

Marius Pontmercy was an eager puppy, that’s what he was. When Courfeyrac introduced him to Enjolras and Combeferre, he had shook both their hands in an exaggerated manner, trembling and rambling about how it was a pleasure to meet them. He then had turned when he heard the sound of the stove alerting them that diner was ready. Trouble was he had not let go of Enjolras’ hand and the latter tripped and fell. Fortunately, Marius caught him in an embrace and even dipped him. Enjolras was not amused. He stared at Marius with that mean, savage way he had, and the poor man tensed. Apparently, Marius was no Grantaire.

From what Courfeyrac told them, Marius had left his grandparents, with whom he was living, after a big argument, and decided to leave the couch of a waitress named Éponine for Courfeyrac’s house. He must have felt guilty, or in a hurry to show his gratitude, because he followed Courfeyrac everywhere and did what he was told obediently. He seemed nice enough, although he could be inadvertently rude, and asked a lot of questions. Bizarre, sometimes inappropriate questions. He even asked if Enjolras had a penis or if he was ‘one of these guys with a vagina’. Enjolras listened to him patiently for a while, trying to explain things as well as he could, but clearly Marius was testing his nerves.

“What’s important is to be seen, and to let other known that the way we are treated is neither fair nor compassionate.”

“I get that, but the world is not nice enough itself to give you fairness and compassion. There are so many expectations, and if you do not meet them, you get put aside! To gain the respect of others and get a few victories; to get listened to, what would be more important than to compromise?”

“Freedom,” quipped Combeferre, looking up at Marius, “The freedom to be who we are without having to get the consent of the majority. To be free to inform and teach in our own ways instead of being imposed falsely ‘correct’ methods to approach people. I genuinely think that a bit of provocation is what make people think. I do not promote violence. However, passivity was never a tool of much use for civil right movements. We can’t do much progress if we have to watch our step every time”

The other three stared at him. He felt slightly uncomfortable. That was why Enjolras did most of the talking. Combeferre was better at expressing himself via paper, or virtually.

“Well, that’s a good point,” admitted Marius. He sported a thoughtful frown. Combeferre thought he just found out why Courfeyrac liked the guy: he may have been rude, but he was patient. He did not get angry. He was not derisive. He was an empathetic being with a good heart.

Courfeyrac, who sat next to Marius, wrapped his arm around the latter’s shoulder dans smiled. “My dear Marius, if you want to debate these two, you must come prepared. They are our optimists, our idealists, our leaders of tomorrow!”

“Then what are you?” asked Marius, oblivious to their closeness.

“I’m just their buffoon, their mascot,” he made a dismissive move, “I’m here to parrot their discourses in a fun way that grabs people interest. Not that I’m much needed most of the time: you should see Angel, here, when he gets inflamed!”

Before Enjolras and Combeferre could protest, Marius stood up and looked at Courfeyrac with lightning in his eyes. “Courfeyrac, you should not degrade yourself like that! And you two, I hope you don’t have the habit of letting him do that! You are such a good-hearted man, letting me stay here! You are probably the nicest, most reliable person in your group of queers!”

Courfeyrac grinned at Enjolras even before seeing the latter reddened from frustration. Combeferre patted Enjolras’ arm.

“Marius,” Enjolras said, “Please do not use the word queer like that. It is othering and could be perceived as an insult.”

“Oh, I meant no harm. Courfeyrac uses the word all the time. ‘I am queer’ here, ‘My friends are queer’ there. He made sure to let me know that I would be the first non-queer person in your group.”

Enjolras whistled in a way that demonstrated how done he was. Courfeyrac threw back his head and laughed. “I told you he was adorable!” he exclaimed. Marius glanced at him, looking a little lost.

Then, a light of determination passed in his eyes.

“I won’t leave this room until everyone in here admits that Bellamy De Courfeyrac is a great human being!” he shouted.

Courfeyrac actually blushed. Enjolras finally smiled and shook his head. Combeferre raised his hand and said, with a deadpan voice “Courfeyrac could make you leave, technically. It’s his house, after all.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Marius in a loud voice, “Because he is great and has decided to let me stay. Because he’s great. You get that, Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac nodded, repressing his giggles. Enjolras was not repressing his very well.

“Courfeyrac is great,” Combeferre said, always with his deadpan, “But great people can make other people leave their house anyhow.”

“Haha! You just said it! Heard that, Courfeyrac? He thinks you are great! Now to you!” he pointed to Enjolras who bursted into laughter. “Don’t laugh! This is the moment to express your feelings to your wonderful friend!”

“S-Se-SEriously,” hiccuped Enjolras, “Courf is great, and he knows he is. You can stop, Marius. Please do stop haha...”

“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac said, “I quite liked where the conversation was going. We don’t talk about my greatness enough.”

Marius had a confused, vexed expression. He sat down again and Courfeyrac smiled kindly at him. “Thanks,” he said, “Don’t worry. It was much appreciated. I think that you’re awesome too!”

Marius blushed and smiled back. Combeferre thought he saw Enjolras roll his eyes out of the corner of his eye. He shook his head and smiled at Marius.

“You seem like someone that everyone else would like as their friend,” he offered. He did not know if it was exactly true —as much as Marius’ clumsy personality was cute, it certainly could grind someone’s patience— but looking at Courfeyrac, that’s what he felt at the moment.

Marius grinned, reassured. Combeferre got the impression that the guy was used to being mocked and made fun of. He felt a pang of guilt.

The rest of the evening went rather well. Combeferre watched over, taking care of restraining Enjolras’ own rudeness so that Marius wouldn’t be dejected or feel rejected. He watched Courfeyrac remained very close and touchy-feely to his new friend, although the latter seemed completely oblivious to the attention. When Courfeyrac kissed him on the cheek before standing up to go to the bathroom, he simply looked surprised and then nothing. No flirty smile, no blushing, no repulsed reaction. Courfeyrac was a patient, slightly sneaky person, but Combeferre was persuaded, in that instant, that “Courfeyrac and Marius” would not happen. He hoped that Courf was not too serious about him.

Combeferre and Enjolras took the subway together. Sitting next to each other, they were the only two people in the train except for a bearded man sitting in front of a young brunette girl who was holding a bag in her hands. She seemed about to fall asleep, having difficulty to keep her eyes open. The man was looking at her tenderly. Probably her father.

“I am not so sure about Marius Pontmercy,” Enjolras said, “He’s not a bad person, but something bugs me about him. Courfeyrac seems to like him well enough though, so I’ll have to get used to his presence. What do you think, ‘Ferre?”

“I think that he rubs you the wrong way because he’s a young, white, cis heterosexual male who’s not particularly well-informed on the topics that interest you. You’ll get over it.”

Enjolras bit his lips. “I know that I can be distrustful, but I was not that ticked off by Courfeyrac’s other friends. Even Juliette. I guess that’s irrational.”

“Perhaps he reminds you of what you were like younger?” Enjolras shot him a dark look. “Just a guess. Don’t take it seriously. But I do not understand why you would kiss a man who’s, from what you told us, a cynic and a harsh critic of our idealism, only to dislike Marius, who’s interested by what we’re saying.”

“Like I already said, I got the feeling that Grantaire wants to be convinced.”

“Are you sure, Enjolras? Because earlier today, you said that he was a detestable prick who accused you of childish naivety.”

“That’s just shallow provocation.” retorted Enjolras, smiling. “He wants to test my arguments, and I guess he has a thing for teasing people.”

“So it’s some kind of foreplay,” Combeferre stated. Had he framed this as a question, perhaps Enjolras would have looked a bit less flushed.

“Oh, we... did not do anything yet. To be honest, sometimes I wonder if getting into a relationship is a good thing right now.”

“I’m no expert, but I’d say you have to try to see if it works.”

“Yes, but what if it doesn’t work out?”

“Enjolras, don’t be a kid,” sighed Combeferre, “You can handle ending a relationship, or going back to a friendship, just as well as Courfeyrac. You just met the guy. He did not ask you to marry him. Relax, observe if you feel this could work, if yes, give it a try, and life goes on. Besides, you’ll probably regret it if you don’t try it. I’ve never seen you this excited about a living person that was not a civil rights leader twice your own age.”

Enjolras nodded. “You are most likely right.” He leaned against Combeferre, like his presence was sufficient to reassure him. Combeferre slung an arm around him and held him tightly. He felt a strange mix of happiness and melancholy overcoming him, and he did not know why. He looked at the man and the girl. The man looked back at him, smiled kindly and waved. Combeferre waved back.

  
***

  
The next day, Combeferre mostly stayed in bed, studying, reading and answering texts from his friends. Enjolras had already started to write an article about the whole Jehan debacle. It was likely to be a steamy, furious piece, and Combeferre admired his tenacity to not sit back and do nothing. Courfeyrac gossiped about a bunch of people Combeferre did not know, and talked about Marius some more. He then proposed to meet at a pub named Hugh’s that night for beer and conversation.

_[Combeferre]: Alright. Let us make the most of the beginning of the term while we can._

_[Courfeyrac]: I count on it! Im inviting marius, kk?_

_[Combeferre]: Why not. Please do not try to corrupt your puppy while we hang out though._

_[Courfeyrac]: I do not know what you mean xox_

  
_[Combeferre]: Enjolras, are you coming tonight at Hugh’s?_

_[Enjolras]: Yeah. Do you know what Grantaire said about my article? That it would inevitably feed the recycling bins!_

  
Combeferre heard a knock at his door. His mother was bringing him tea and biscuits. She put the plate and the cup on his bedside table, making no sound. Combeferre nodded at her. He waited until she was near the door to open his mouth.

“Mom?” he said tentatively. “I’m going out with Enjolras and Courfeyrac again tonight. We’ll be at Hugh’s.”

His mother stopped, tilting her head. “Oh. Your brother will be gone too. I guess I’ll have the house for myself, then.”

Her tone was not sad or disappointed, yet Combeferre felt the urge to hold her back a few seconds more.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweety?”

“...”

He realized that he did not know what to say. He was looking at his mother and nothing come to mind. He could ask some questions about her work, or about puzzles, but it would sound awkward and weird. He could talk to her about his classes, but he did not have anything interesting to say about them yet that his mother did not already know about. Besides, she would not understand most of what he was talking about. He wanted to talk, that much Combeferre knew, but it was suddenly incredibly difficult to do so. He did have things to say, feelings to share. But where to begin? What was appropriate? And why did he want to talk now, what triggered it?

“Is something the matter, Hubert?” asked his mother worryingly.

“Yes,” he simply said, unable to lie to his mother. “I have trouble talking,” he added, since it was the truth.

“What do you mean? Is your throat sore?”

“No, no. I mean that I want to talk, but I forgot how...” he answered in a hoarse voice. He was feeling emotive. That made no sense at all. Nothing happened.

“You do not have to force yourself, sweetheart,” Malika said. She approached him and made him look at her in the eyes by cupping his face between her soft, dark hands. “Talking is not as easy as people make it to be, and it should come naturally. On the other hand, if you do need to talk, there’s no need for it to be coherent or important. Just let out whatever, and the itch will calm down. And don’t forget, you can tell me everything.”

“Everything that comes to mind is either meaningless, or too serious,” he admitted. She smiled at him.

“You should let me be the judge of that. And, I have to say, nothing that ever comes out of your mouth is meaningless to me.”

Combeferre thought it was a bit cheesy, and probably untrue, but the words did appease him. Malika caressed his face in a motherly gesture and passed her hand through his tick curly hair. He let her, as it seemed to calm him.

“Right now, I’d like to say that your touch is soothing, and that you’re beautiful, mom,” he blurted out, his face starting to burn. His mother let out a laugh.

“Why, thank you, Hubert,” she said. She looked around his room, taking in the various puzzled that papered the walls. “You know, if you were done with your work, perhaps you could help me finish one of my puzzle. Or we could play Portal 2.”

“I don’t want you to feel obliged.”

“Don’t be silly. You’d be doing me a favour, sharing some time with me before going to see your friends.”

Combeferre agreed, feeling privileged. His mother usually liked to do her puzzles alone. When he and Pierre were younger, she would scold at them when they touched her games, and would even buy her their own so they would not accidentally mess up her projects. He did not remember ever helping his mother with a puzzle. So he chose that instead of playing Portal 2, which was his brother’s game. It felt more intimate and familial to attach piece after piece on the table until a beautiful image appeared. Yet, they did not talk much.

Then came the time to go join his friends at Hugh’s. Combeferre embraced his mother in a spontaneous burst of affection.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No problem, sweetheart.”

  
***

  
Courfeyrac, Jehan and Enjolras were already sitting at a table in the pub when Combeferre came in. They were not alone. Along with Marius, a tall brown woman was there with them, laughing gayly at something Jehan was saying. There was also a scruffy, acne-ridden man with a large nose who was nursing a glass of what looked like a rhum and coke. He was stealing glances at Enjolras every so often, but he was also listening to the conversation while grinning. Courfeyrac waved at Combeferre and he waved back.

“Combeferre! Mon ami!” Jehan exclaimed. They stood up and threw their hands in the air. Apparently, they were already a bit tipsy. “Let me introduce you to Bianca Musichetta. She is a lit student too, and she aspires to be a writer, just like me. And this,” they pointed at the scruffy man, “this person is R!”

“R?” repeated Combeferre. He figured that it was a nickname for Grantaire, but why... Oh. “Enjolras, I hate you,” he said with a serene tone. Grantaire snorted.

“Why? I think it fits him well!” Jehan exclaimed, sitting back on their chair heavily. “R, like the river where rare rivetting arts are drawn!

Musichetta giggled and Marius clapped.

Grantaire creased his forehead. “R, like the dreary, ramshackle rake dreaming of mere prawns.”

Enjolras looked up at him, interested, but slightly disturbed. Jehan acquiesced and smiled, oblivious. “Would that be the words of a fellow poet?”

Grantaire sniffed. “A poet? Me? Ha!”

“He’s an artist, actually,” Enjolras declared.

“Enjolras!”

“You mean like painting?” Marius asked.

“Yeah, well. If you would call them that,” Grantaire said. He passed a hand through his messy curls and started rambling. “Mostly, I just get bored and I thrash the walls and the ceiling in my home. I just like my environment to resemble my state of mind. Sometimes, I feel as though some of my paintings could potentially be perceived as real projects, but most of the time, it just looks like I barfed colours onto my walls.”

“Liar,” Enjolras said. Grantaire threw him an amused glance. “They are literally works of art! You should see it, guys. It felt wonderful.”

“Ah, yes, I guess that smudges, splatters and stains can be pretty to look at too,” snarked Grantaire.

Combeferre ordered a beer and, waiting for it to arrive, he took the time to observe the man that his friend was taken with. He had shut the man up before. He remembered being particularly unimpressed with his behaviour. He thought that Grantaire was some kind of jester who did not take anything seriously and invited himself where he could cause trouble. Now that he could see him interact in a relatively more intimate scene, he thought that there was something somber about him. Grantaire was smiling, but he looked nervous. Unsure. His self-depreciating humour sounded more honest than jokey. He had all of the allure of an ingrained pessimist. At least, that’s the impression he gave to Combeferre.

Why was Enjolras so interested in that man? Not that Combeferre was judging, but usually, his friend praised optimism and pressed people to seize their chance for a better future. He admired hard-work and persistence. Grantaire looked like someone who was... resigned. Even as he looked upon Enjolras, he had the air of someone who did not believe his chance. Perhaps Combeferre was seeing too much into it.

Musichetta, on the other hand, dripped of positivity. It was hard to make her lose her smile, she acted self-assured and she was not afraid to mingle with the others without restraining herself. It was an admirable trait, all and all. Combeferre understood why Jehan got along with her.

Marius was shy in public. Everything about him was even more awkward than it was at Courfeyrac’s place. Still, he held himself straight, talked, drank, smiled and laughed. He did not let his presence be erased. Everyone was conscious that he was there with them...

Combeferre was so lost into his observation that he did not notice Grantaire getting up. The man let out a big yawp. Combeferre threw him an irate look, appalled. However, when Courfeyrac started joining him, as well as Jehan, and that they heard an answering loud cry of war, he got what was going on. He felt a big hand fell on his shoulder and a big laugh erupted in his ear.

“I saw you lost in your own little world from the front door, dude. Y’have to pay more attention. I gather this is a friendly reunion, not self-retrospection time!” Bahorel said.

From what Combeferre knew about the man, Bahorel had a knack to notice the little details that everyone else passed over or forgot. With his six feet five, his burliness and his hairy body, he looked like the kind of person who could break you into two. And perhaps he could: Bahorel was a fan of martial arts and boxing. However, there was more to him. Somehow, he always talked to Combeferre first when he joined the group.

“Aw, ‘Ferre, you are doing it again!” shouted Bahorel. He started to shake Combeferre a little. “You should relax, man. Thinking that much has got to be bad for your health in the long run.”

Combeferre snorted. “I can’t relax when you do that.”

“I did not know y’all knew Grantaire!” Bahorel said, letting go of Combeferre, but still addressing him. He turned towards the scruffy man, grabbed his head between his large hairy hands, and plunged forward, almost smashing their heads together. Grantaire let out a ‘ow’, laughed and slapped Bahorel on the arm.

“Oh, he and Enjolras hooked up!” Courfeyrac said in his place. Bahorel raised a brow. Courfeyrac shrugged. “We were as surprised as you are.”

“Hey!” Enjolras exclaimed, “I may have been celibate until now, but I don’t see how me hanging out with Grantaire warrant such a reaction. Not everyone has to have had relationships by twenty, and not everyone who hasn’t will be forever a vir—” He stopped himself and cleared his throat. Grantaire stared at him with what ought to be lust, but he pulled a face.

“That is not what they meant. It’s more the idea of you and me.”

“What, why?”

“Oh, come on, you know why.”

“This is like Beauty and the Beast,” Marius said to Enjolras. The latter immediately reddened with what was more likely to be anger than embarrassment. Grantaire laughed, though, and showed his thumb up.

“Marius, honey, no,” Courfeyrac intervened, repressing a laugh nonetheless.

“That was a bit tactless,” Combeferre agreed.

“Well, I was raised to be honest, and it would be lying to say that Enjolras and Grantaire are equally beautiful. From what I know, pretty people usually like to hook up with other pretty people.”

“How very prejudiced of you!” Enjolras exclaimed.

“No, he is right,” replied Grantaire, “I am not conventionally handsome.”

“Neither am I.”

“Perhaps, but you are still pretty, which is more than I can say for myself.”

“You don’t get to decide that alone! Not everyone has to conform to society’s standards and expectations.”

“I’m not saying that,” Grantaire retorted, shaking his head, “What Marius and I are saying is that those standards and expectations exist, and they inevitably affect the way people look at each other, and each other’s relationships. You might be all fine and dandy being seen with me, but it is surprising to others. People usually end up with the better they can get with a mix of their looks and personality. You, darling, chose a scruffy, smelly beast.”

Marius nodded and Combeferre thought Enjolras was going to strangle one of the two.

“The fact that these standards exist should not mean that we have to live by them and encourage them. In fact, we should work to dismantle these prejudices.”

“Well, good luck with that. I mean, even our friends are surprised to hear our names and the words ‘hook up’ in the same sentence. The Beauty and the Beast. It’s appropriate!”

“Grantaire,” Musichetta interjected, “It is not good to shit on yourself and sort of glorify Enjolras that way.”

“Friends, friends!” cried Jehan. They looked serious and raised an accusing finger towards Grantaire and Enjolras. “As a poet and an art lover, I have to say, I am disappointed. There is no inherent beauty. There is no inherent ugliness. There is only the experience of the world around us, and the beast that lies in every individual. That is all.”

That did the trick. Everyone shut up for a moment and did not know how to continue to argue, especially with a drunken Jehan. Combeferre let out the breath he did not know he was holding in. Bahorel rolled his eyes.

“You know, I never even said that I was surprised,” he groaned, “Sorry for starting something here. I have to say, though, y’all are a bunch of opinionated weirdos.”

“Must be why we are friends, then,” quipped Grantaire.

“Yeah, you’re right. I might be a weirdo, though, I’m the prettiest of y’all. Ain’t that right, Fra?”

“Fra? Who the hell is Fra?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Feuilly,” answered Grantaire, “Fra is for Francis, but only Bahorel calls him that. Hi Feuilly.”

Combeferre looked around and finally saw Feuilly, half hidden behind Bahorel’s giant figure. He wished he could have smacked himself for missing him. The man could be as loud and visible as Bahorel when he wanted to, but he could also be sneaky and subtle. It was easy to miss him in a crowd. Combeferre did not know how it was possible, because Feuilly had quite a recognizable physique. He was muscular, had a number of tattoos on his hands and arms, had short straight black hair. That much was common. What was less common was his blue slanting eyes. From what Combeferre’s been told, it was rare for East-Asian people to have blue eyes, and Feuilly’s were a striking icy blue.

Feuilly nodded. “Hello.”

“Damn, you could be a ninja and I would not be surprised!” Courfeyrac cried.

“Perhaps I am a ninja and you don’t know,” Feuilly said, amused. Then, he turned towards Grantaire. “Having conversations about how ugly you are, aren’t you?”

“My favourites,” Grantaire exclaimed. He winked at Enjolras who had a sulky expression on his face.

“Don’t make me restrain you and force you to say ‘I’m Grantaire and I’m gorgeous’ five times,” Feuilly said.

“Oh, I’m so scared. _Ugly_ little me is scared.”

“What did you just say, punk?” Feuilly asked, bulging his eyes and showing his teeth.

“I. am. Fugly!”

Feuilly and Bahorel launched themselves at Grantaire. One of them grabbed his arms and maintained them up while the other proceeded to tickle Grantaire, who appeared to be a ticklish person because he squirmed and pleaded mercy right at the beginning.

“Say it! Say it!” started Bahorel. He was soon joined by the chorus of everyone else. Grantaire bit his lips in a stubborn grimace, but he could not keep from laughing. It looked almost painful.

Combeferre had not needed to intervene at all. His friends were going to be all right. Even Enjolras was giggling at the spectacle of Grantaire laughing so hard tears were rolling down his cheeks. The poor man eventually slid on the floor and curled up into a ball, but he kept laughing as Bahoral tapped him gently in the back.

Feuilly looked at Enjolras and winked. Enjolras smiled. Jehan joined Grantaire on the floor, for some reason, resting on their back as the other man snorted, lying on his belly. Courfeyrac, going with it, went to lie on Jehan. Musichetta and Marius seemed to have cramps, so much they were laughing.

Combeferre wondered which part of himself he should listened to: the part that suddenly felt uneasy and lonely, or the part that was glad that his friends were having fun. He had no reason to even acknowledge the first part. After all, his friends did not ignore or isolate him. It was him who did not speak. Bahorel even talked to him, and they were not that close. So why did he feel alienated for a moment?

“I need fresh air,” he told Enjolras. “I’ll be back.”

He zipped up his coat, put on his hat and went outside. It was snowing. People came and went on the street without looking at him, some of them looking straight ahead and others looking at their phone. He got his own phone out of his pocket and looked through his contacts. He decided to text Joly.

 

_[Combeferre]: Joly. What are you doing tomorrow? Do you want to go to the Musain for a cup of coffee? You can bring Bossuet._

He felt better now that he had taken an initiative. It was not exactly talking, but it was not merely responding to someone or explaining either. It was an invitation. Tomorrow, Combeferre would be able to talk about something, to create a conversation. He would.

“Texting your other friends when your old ones are already there? You could have brought them, you know.”

Combeferre turned around to see Courfeyrac looking at him. He was visibly worried, but he was smiling.

“Oh, just needed fresh air. Thought I would invite Joly and his friend Bossuet for coffee tomorrow.”

“You’re not fooling me.” Courfeyrac said, frowning. “Something’s strange in your attitude. You’ve been withdrawn and in your own little world, like Bahorel said. That’s fine for a moment, but now I’m beginning to think you were uncomfy back then. Something’s the matter?”

“I... I don’t really know what to tell you without it coming out as offensive. I don’t know what to say at all, to be honest,” Combeferre admitted.

“It’s fine. It’s okay to feel down sometimes. Or to feel like seeing other people, I don’t know. Please just don’t hide within yourself like that.”

Combeferre nodded. Courfeyrac approached him and put a hand on his shoulder, but then took it back and cleared his throat. “I should ask, shouldn’t I? Do you need a hug, Hubert?”

Combeferre nodded again. He did not know how he felt, but a hug seemed right in that moment. He let his friend wrap his arms around him and hug him tightly.”

“Listen. I’ll go get Marius. Then we can go home and we’ll watch a movie.”

“Courfeyrac.”

“Yes?”

“I do not want to watch a movie. I want to talk,” Combeferre blurted. “I wanted to talk, earlier, but I couldn’t talk to my own mother. We shared a silence. It felt nice, but it is not enough.”

“Do you feel as though you can’t talk to us?”

“Sometimes, I just feel like I’m not really saying anything, and like your lives evolve and fill with new things while I... stagnate.”

“Oh, Hubert,” sighed Courfeyrac. “Don’t you know we’d be completely lost without you?” He hugged his friend tighter and Combeferre finally hugged back.

“I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I feel that way.”

“Not everything has to be rational. Just don’t close in on yourself like that. It scares me,” Courfeyrac admitted. He kissed Combeferre on the cheek, then changed the subject. “Hey, hey! If you want to talk, let’s have a slumber party at my place! Slumber party, you, me, and Marius!”

“Can I ask why Marius has to be included?”

“Simple. I can’t leave him here, how rude that would be? And when we’re at my place, he follows me everywhere. He’s adorable. We’ll help you talk, you’ll see.”

“And Enjolras?”

“Enjolras will probably go home with Grantaire, if you know what I mean. Unless his mother had other plans for him.”

“Alright, then. A slumber party.”

“Hourray!”

Courfeyrac threw his hands up in the air and grinned. Combeferre grinned back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -"Notre Dame du Bon Conseil" means "Our Lady of Good Advice". It's also a village in Quebec between Drummondville and Victoriaville.  
> -The lyrics in English are "I hope that someone is watching over / At Notre-Dame-du-Bon-Conseil".  
> -"Jean-Luc" means "God is gracious".  
> -"Didier" means "Much desired".  
> -"André" means "warrior".  
> -"Francis" means "Free Man" or "French Man".


	4. Sarah sans Sourire (Éponine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Éponine has a busy life loving and resenting equally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I guess that Éponine can be judgmental.  
> -Language, potty-mouths!  
> -A bit of half-arsed fooling around.

 

 

 _Je me suis tricoté un coeur_  
 _De laine d’acier, de barbelé_  
 _Je suis le fil de mes humeurs_  
 _Et je me fous du monde entier_  
~Sophie Pelletier

 

  
It had been a week since Marius had last came to see Éponine at work. He did not visit her either, nor did he go back to that university’s restroom. One day, he just decided to leave the tiny apartment with his bag of clothes to go live with that Bellamy Courfeyrac guy. In other words, he had left the security of being with someone who cared about him for the —probably big— house of a total stranger. What an idiot. Éponine would not be surprised if the news of that day were talking about the body of a gangly boy found into the river St-Lawrence.

_I do not care. I do not care. I do not care. I’m totally done caring._

Truth was that, on top of being worried, Éponine was resentful. Angry, even. She had been washing Marius Pontmercy’s clothes and she had cooked for him despite working all day, she had been a devoted friend ever since they met, and this is how he was thanking her: by running away. Of course, in Marius’ case, it was possible that he thought he was doing her a favour by moving out almost immediately after moving in. Éponine did not feel favoured. She felt like that person you’re embarrassed to say was ever your roommate. Even only for a few days. She also felt like a mother who’s kid is packing his things to go live on his own for the first time —that was a somewhat disturbing thought, considering the nature of what she felt for Marius.

She had been trying not to care so much all week, but on that day, she gave in and dug out her phone book from under the couch where she also kept dictionaries and learning guides for those who wanted to drive a motorcycle. She searched for the De Courfeyracs’ address and, when she got it, she left home.

“I still do not care,” she said out loud, “I’m just curious.”

  
***

  
“That little shit is living in there alone with his folks? No wonder he was so eager to invite us there. I’d freak out if I’d have to live in a place where I could lose myself,” Éponine said. When she had no one to share her thought to, she talked to herself and sometimes enjoyed the perplexed expressions of the passerby.

Courfeyrac’s house was gigantic. It was probably bigger than the inn her parents owned when she was a little girl and that they had not gone bankrupt. She felt a pang of jealousy in her chest: not because Courfeyrac was rich, but because that meant he could more easily buy Marius’ affections. It was easier to be nice, open and generous when you had money. It was also easier to be a dickhead, but that did not mean people ceased to like you. You were not necessarily deemed a societal parasite, unlike Éponine’s parents who did not work, and Éponine herself who was a high school drop out.

Éponine sighed and pondered whether she should knock at the door or not. Surely, they’re mistake her for a beggar or a Jehovah witness and would not respond. That had happened to her before. Besides, it was way too early to visit a friend. Although Marius liked to wake up before six, she was about sure that the Courfeyracs would not be tolerant of people ringing their bell and demanding to see their guest in that hour of the morning.

She decided to wait after work.

  
***

  
At ten, Éponine’s little brother showed up at her work place. His hair was coated with mud and so was his round face. His pants were white with sticking snow and his coat was half unzipped. Éponine nearly dropped a cup of coffee on a patron who stared at her with his mean little eyes. She rolled hers and banged the cup against the table.

“What!” she said, “I did not spilt it, did I? I’m a professional, sir. Now go back to your newspaper.”

She left the table and the old man, mouth hanging opened, and practically launched herself on her brother. She slapped him on the side of the head, irritation drawn in her face.

“Marcel, for the love of fuck, I told you not to skip school again!” she hissed.

“And I told you it was Gavroche, now,” answered her brother, unperturbed. “Also, you used to skip school all the time.”

“Yeah, and look where it got me. You’re the smart one of the bunch: use your brains so you don’t become like me, or worse, dad.”

Gavroche grimaced and faked a gag. Éponine nodded and zipped his coat.

“Now, go.”

“Hey, it’s not because I don’t go to school some of the times that I’m going to fail. Or become like Thénardier. You ever wonder why I came here? Maybe it’s because school is too easy.”

“It’s too easy until you forget how to study and get your ass kicked by a physic test in 10th grade. Or, if you don’t hurry up back, by me!”

Gavroche sighed loudly and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Can I at least stay here until the afternoon classes?”

“Yes, well I am NOT phoning your school to lie and say that you are sick. You won’t be counting on me that time, Marcel. Gavroche. What does that even mean?”

Gavroche shrugged and smiled. He removed his coat and went to the back of the coffee shop to throw it in a booth.

“What am I going to do with you...” muttered Éponine. She did know what to make of her brother half of the time. Marcel Thénardier was a free bird: it was hard to command him to do anything he was not interested in, and he seemed to slide between everyone’s fingers. At thirteen, he already showed incredible autonomy, but he also had the knack for getting interested in either the most pointless, or dangerous people. As much as Gavroche hated their parents for being crooks and insensitive fucks, he was still attracted by a romanticised version of the outlaw and his mischievousness knew no limits. His favourite book and movie was still Robin Hood.

Éponine went to the kitchen and came back with a piece of pie and a glass of milk for Gavroche. He grinned and asked for the newspaper. He would not read it: he would do the crosswords, timing himself. Then he would pretend to read the comic strips while watching her from the corner of his eyes. Gavroche felt protective of his siblings, and since Éponine was the only one who had left the familial house as of now, he came to visit her to check on her. Éponine guessed that he also liked to annoy her. What he did not know was that she was glad he came here when he skipped school instead of roaming around the city like a homeless kid —which he claimed to be— and randomly talking to strangers.

At least, here, she knew he was relatively safe.

  
***

  
At noon, Gavroche left, pretending he had some “business” to attend to before going back to school. He let Éponine muss his hair, put his hat on and zip his thin coat up to his chin. He tapped her arm as goodbye and left with a spring in his step. Éponine watched him go, wariness pulling the corners of her lips down. It was never really a good thing when Gavroche had secret projects. It usually meant that he intended to see someone he was not supposed to. Sometimes, that someone was Montparnasse, a petty criminal who sometimes worked strange jobs with their father.

When her family went bankrupt and her parents decided to use financial aid from the government, which reduced her and her sister Azelma as the “poor kids” at school, Éponine met Kevin Montparnasse. He was not much older than her and he taught her how to throw a punch in the backyard of the elementary school. Éponine was getting harassed and he probably took pity on her. Or, and that was an entirely possible alternative, he thought it would be more fun to stand for the underdog instead of the cowardly crowd of mean-spirited kids who most likely borrowed their prejudices from their parents.

Éponine ended up breaking some poor kid’s nose that day. She avoided expulsion, but not by much. She and Montparnasse became friends in detention. Before she reached 9th grade, Éponine thought they would eventually get married and leave their lives of misery behind.

Sadly, Montparnasse was not interested in having a decent future. He despised authority, had a real problem with following any rules that was not his, and preferred his own savour of freedom rather than a quiet, settled life. He was also extremely vain, perceived himself as a bit of a dandy, and firmly believed in the motto of Carpe Diem. Thus, he smoked, had a lot of sex with different people, drank heavily and dealt drugs. Some rumours said he even killed once, and Éponine had no way of confirming if it was true or false. He would not tell her, instead staring at her with that enigmatic smile of his.

It was with Montparnasse that Éponine started to develop a taste for alcohol and swearing. She could not completely blame him, as she knew what she was doing when she followed him around, but she still saw him as a terribly bad influence for her siblings. Fortunately, Azelma highly disliked Montparnasse and avoided him. The youngest were scared of him. Only Gavroche remained unintimidated before the man. Éponine thought that he saw the man as a joke, like he could see right through him. These assumptions were dangerous ones to have.

“That damned little jerk!” Éponine exclaimed when she saw what he had done with the newspaper: he had drawn a caricature of what seemed like Éponine kissing a very gangly, exaggerated-looking Marius.

  
***

“What do you tell a friend who thinks they’re in love?”

Éponine startled at the question. She was smoking a cigarette behind the coffee shop where Floreal, the daughter of the florist next door, joined her. Floreal and Éponine knew each other from elementary school, but they never used to hang out before the end of high school. Floreal was a strange, shy, silent girl. She started following Éponine around in twelfth grade as though they were long time friends. She rarely spoke and hid behind people when addressed too brusquely. She did not look the part: she had short blue hair and a good amount of tattoos. Yet she was socially crippled. Éponine thought she was cute, but annoying. She’d be even more annoying if that question was any kind of innuendo.

“What friend?” Éponine asked sourly.

“Oh, you don’t know him... his name is Grantaire. He’s my neighbour,” Floreal mumbled. “He keeps going on and on about that other man.”

Éponine let out a relieved sigh. She blew the smoke of her cigarette and tapped it. The ashes fell on her shoe. She did not bother to remove it.

“Well. Perhaps your friend first should find out if that dude is gay as well.”

“I know that Grantaire’s not gay!” exclaimed Floreal a little too fast. She flushed and hid her face behind her hands, giving herself away. Éponine barked a laugh.

“What, you fucked him?” Her friend did not answer, but she did not need to. Éponine shook her head, amused. “So, is the dude gay, or bi, or whatever?”

“He told me that they kissed...” Floreal said. Éponine could barely hear what she was saying because of her obstructing hands. Annoyed, she grabbed one of Floreal’s wrists and pulled it away from her face. Floreal became even redder. “They kissed.” she said again.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“He said he’s not going to be good enough.”

“Oh. Another case of bad self-esteem. How original. Let him dwell on it, Floreal. Or tell him he’s great until he believes it, I don’t know.”

“He gets antsy when someone compliments him, though...”

“It’s hard to make someone like that believe they are anything but garbage, but hey, as a friend you can try. I get that nice words feel pestering to him, but they can help too.”

Floreal played with her hands and bit her lips. She had a secretive little smile, which was uncommon. Éponine frowned. She hoped that Floreal was not making silly parallels between that friend of hers and Éponine. Éponine did not have low self-esteem, she did not distrust herself: rather, she distrusted everyone else.

“What?”

“I... I heard them argue about that. It was very childish. At one point, Grantaire stopped arguing and kept saying ‘no, no, nah, not, nada, niet’. By the end, Enjolras —that’s his name, I think— was yelling. Then it was just silence, so I assume he angrily left or they made up.”

Floreal looked both sheepish and impish. It was adorable. However, something was bothering Éponine about that conversation. She could have sworn she had heard that name before. Enjolras.

“What does he look like, that dude your neighbour likes so much?” she asked.

“He looks like a model,” Floreal said. She had a dreamy spark in her eyes, “He’s very tall, he has long blonde hair, blue eyes, and red lips. Grantaire calls him his ‘fine marble’. He does look like a Greek statue. Aren’t androgynous boys the prettiest?”

She shrugged, dropped her cigarette to the ground and crushed it with her foot.

“I must get back to work,” she declared. Floreal nodded and left silently. They did not say goodbye.

  
***

  
One hour before the end of her shift, Éponine witnessed something funny in the coffee shop.

There was that tall transgender woman from the university talking with another girl. Éponine knew that she was trans because one of her colleague, an older nosy man, worked at the Musain years ago and at that time, the Musichettas only had one girl, not two.

Éponine had never talked to Bianca, but sometimes, she saw her in the coffee shop. She didn’t know why she chose to came here instead of her parents’ place, but she liked to observe her. Bianca looked so strong and self-assured. It changed from the shy nervous-looking girls like Floreal, the popular ones who send each other nasty glares and the bubbly ones who pretended to find their boyfriend’s jokes funny. Society has messed them up, and their femininity was used like a weapon or in shame, which made Éponine angry. She had no right to judge. She did not felt enough knowledgeable to do so anyway. However, she felt that little something boiling inside of her each time.

Bianca was talking to that other girl, gesticulating and smiling wildly, when this black dude with almost no hair passed next to her. In her excitation, she accidentally brushed his belly. He startled very hard and dropped the glass he’d been carrying on her. She was wearing white. The glass contained grape juice. Bianca’s friend shrieked at the man while Bianca, frozen, looked at her shirt now ruined and semi-transparent. The guy started screaming apologies, complete and utter terror on his face, while making weird movements with his hands, like he did not know what to do with them. Chances are he wanted to sponge Bianca, but the juice had targeted her wide breasts and it’d have been grossly inappropriate. Everyone in the place were staring at them, some with bulgy eyes, some with a contained rictus.

Éponine bursted into laughter. Musichetta, her friend and the clumsy guy all stared at her, but she did not care. That scene was priceless and straight out of a romantic comedy. A romantic comedy starring Bianca Musichetta, now _that_ would be worth watching.

  
***

  
Taking the subway to get back home proved to be a very bad idea. Tired from her day and carrying heavy bags from the grocery story, she thought she would indulge even thought she had promised herself not to spend too much on subway fare this year. She wanted to save her money. Unfortunately —and it had to be karma— fate put her on the same train as a man called Jean Valjean and his step-daughter Cosette.

When Éponine was nine, her family was starting to have financial difficulties, so they took in the daughter of a poor woman who needed a cheap babysitter while she looked for a job. That daughter was Cosette. Her family had not always been nice to the girl. Éponine and Azelma ignored her most of the time and refused to share their toys with her. Mrs Thénardier was cold, and Mr Thénardier —who did not like children anyway— did not even talk to her. The situation worsened when Cosette’s mother stopped showing, rarely giving a sigh of life and only sending a little money per week. Mrs Thénardier was becoming violent towards the end and made Cosette do all sorts of tasks for her. Then, one day, they did not hear from Fantine again. It was a man, a Mr Jean Valjean, who came to get Cosette, pretending to be a friend of Fantine. The latter was gravely sick and he had proposed to take care of Cosette. Apparently, Fantine died soon after and Cosette took Valjean’s name.

Jean Valjean was a tall, muscular man with stunning white hair. He was not that old, nor was he an albino, but there was almost no other colour in his impressive mane. He always smiled to everyone, even when they clearly did not deserve it —like Éponine’s parents, for instance. He seemed to be rich too, since every time Éponine saw Cosette afterwards, she was dressed in impeccable dresses and skirts. She had also gained weight and looked more healthy. Before, she had been a puny, skinny girl with bony arms. Now, she looked radiant and her thick brown hair was beautiful.

All Éponine could feel when she looked at Cosette was shame and envy. Shame of not having been a friend instead of a bully. Shame of perhaps having been just as bad as her parents. Envy for the life the other girl was now living. Meanwhile, Cosette said a polite “hello” each time they ran into each other. There was no way of knowing if she was resentful, if she despised Éponine. Even in the subway, she waved at her. Éponine, both her hands gripping her bags, nodded at her, embarrassed. Cosette’s father noticed her and smiled. Éponine groaned. He was going to talk to her.

“Oh, Miss Thénardier!” he exclaimed jovially, “How are you doing?”

She shrugged, but did not smile back. Why smile like that if you wasn’t feeling it anyway? He did not seem bothered by that, but he was still awaiting an answer.

“Long day at work,” she offered.

“Ah, I see. Where do you work, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Some coffee shop near Côte-des-Neiges,” she answered after a pause of hesitation. “It’s called The Leston.”

Valjean nodded. He pointed at Cosette. “Cosette, here, is looking for a part-time job to get some experience. I tried to tell her to concentrate on her ballet classes, but she will not hear it. Is your place hiring?”

Cosette elbowed her father and rolled her eyes. “Papa, do not bother Éponine with that! I can find a job on my own, you know! Sorry, Éponine.”

Éponine flushed and shook her head. “My place is hiring,” she blurted. “It’s not that great a place, so there’s often change in the staff, but... you know. If you want to give it a try...”

She did not know what she was doing. Working with Cosette would be awful. Therre would be awkward silences and sneaky glances every few seconds. Éponine did not need that extra stress. And yet, when Cosette grinned at her and Valjean smiled warmly, she felt good about herself. She was not doing Cosette any favour’s really, because The Leston was so banal, but she was being sympathetic and pleasant. She was still not smiling though, when she added “I’ll give a word about you to my manager.”

Cosette sprung up and hugged her. It was so sudden that Éponine almost fell backward with the movements of the subway. She could not hug back, but she pressed herself a little against Cosette, feeling her cheeks reddening. Valjean laughed a loud charming laugh.

“Now, who’s too enthusiastic? Aren’t you glad I asked?”

Cosette pulled back. She was a little pink herself. She seemed absolutely happy. “When can I come to give my CV?”

“Oh, I work tomorrow from eight to four. Come whenever you want.”

“I’ll be there at noon, because I have classes before and after. Do you think they’ll take me for the weekends?”

“You’ll just have to smile and that should do the job,” Éponine said in a falsely flirtatious tone. Cosette giggled and they parted way when the train arrived at Éponine’s station.

  
***

  
When she arrived home, Montparnasse was waiting in front of her door. Rather, he was trying to pick the lock open. Éponine had no time for his childish behaviour, so she threw one of the bags at him. He yelped and glared at her. She glared right back.

“I just invited Cosette Valjean to apply for a job at the same coffee I work for. I even implied that her smile was cute enough for them to hire her. Tell me I’m a fucking idiot before I punch you for trying to break in.”

Montparnasse let out a laugh. “Yeah, you’re a fucking idiot, so what’s new?”

Inside, she put the groceries at their respective place, shred out her coat and threw a soda at her friend. She was seething, angry at herself for wanting to be nice. Nothing good ever seemed to come out of that. She tried to help Marius and he just left. When she tried to help her brother to stay in school, he whined. When she helped Montparnasse, she always came close to get into trouble. What would happen now that she was helping Cosette?

“Why did you say she had a nice smile? I thought you hated the girl,” Montparnasse said, opening his can of soda. He sipped it and looked at Éponine, effortlessly looking bored and intrigued at the same time.

“I don’t hate Cosette. I hate the history we have together, that’s totally different,” retorted Éponine. “Besides, she does have a nice smile. With little dimples and freckles on her nose. Nothing like this here.” She showed her teeth. Some were missing from a fight she had with one of Montparnasse’s friends a year ago. She could not afford replacing them. The remaining teeth were yellowed because of the cigarettes, which she needed badly right now. She rummaged around the small apartment and found them under her couch.

“Oh, I need one of those,” Montparnasse said making grabby hands.

“Fuck you, get your own.”

“I’ll owe you, come on. I haven’t smoked all day.”

“Perhaps that’s for the better.”

“Please,” he snorted. “Don’t be hypocritical. Be a friend instead. I mean, you helped that Colette girl, didn’t you?”

“That’s the point, Montparnasse. I’m done with kindness for today,” she snapped. She still threw a cigarette at him. “So when you can drag your lazy ass to the convenience store, you’ll be owing me three of them little cancer sticks.”

“Okay. I can respect the want to make profit over a friendly gesture...” Montparnasse said, smirking. He got out his lighter from the pocket of his leather jacket and lighter his cigarette and then Éponine’s. He took a drag and blew the smoke above Éponine’s head. “Cosette... little too mousy for me. Not my type. Didn’t know it was yours.”

“What? No, not really. I mean, I can’t really picture myself with another woman. Least of all Cosette. I can still say: you, my friend, have bad taste.”

Montparnasse frowned. “I sleep with you, you know.”

“Should I feel flattered?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. She scoffed and laughed when he nodded, his eyes serious. He pouted and pushed her.

Perhaps it was true. Next to Montparnasse, she was not that good-looking. She looked a little plain. She had often been accused of being a tomboy or, in more vulgar term, an “aggressive, bossy bitch”. She did not always take the time to put make up on and she did not dress too well. Some of the clothes she had came from Montparnasse and his friends.

Kevin Montparnasse, though, had every reason to be vain. He was a strange beauty with his smooth, brownish skin, his long silky black hair, his small nose and his very red luscious lips. He was tall, but not gangly or big. He was not very rich, but he found clothes that suited him so well they seemed to embrace his whole body. His deep brown eyes were intense and profound. He was pretty and handsome at the same time. He owned every inch of masculinity and femininity he had.

“Okay, so maybe I am,” she conceded, “But that still means you have horrible taste. Instead of attractive feminine girls with big hearts, you like to bang soulless little me.”

Montparnasse closed his eyes and ‘tssed’ at her. “If you’re fishing for compliments, you’re looking at the wrong person, Miss.” he blew his smoke at her. She glared and blew her own at him. He laughed. “I do not really care about people’s looks, that’s what I’m really saying.”

“You just said that Cosette was too mousy for you AND you’re the most narcissistic person I know. How the fuck do you not care about looks?”

“I said _other people’s_ looks. I do care about mine. As for Cosette, mousy means timid.”

“Cosette’s not that timid.”

“Well, she’s not you.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Éponine said, perplexed. Montparnasse had a sweet voice, a gentle, but determined expression. He was not lying. “So what, you’re telling me that you base your desire to fuck on people’s personality now? That seems very unlikely. I mean, you frick and frack with a new person every few days.”

“Oh, I don’t need to know _everything_ about someone to fuck them, Éponine. I just look at how they are acting, and I know. Generally, if they want me enough, that’s a good sign. See, that Cosette of yours, she wouldn’t dare looking at me. So why would I look at her?”

“Wow. That’s... you sleep with people when they want you? That’s called being easy, man.”

“I prefer the term ‘generous’,” he said, winking at her. Éponine laughed.

“So that’s why you sleep with me? Because you feel that I... desired you, or something?”

“You were head over heals for me.”

“Fuck that shit.”

She shook her head and blew smoke. She got up to look for an ashtray. There was one on the floor in her room. She crushed her cigarette and brought the ashtray to Montparnasse so he could use it too. He took it and tapped his cigarette, but did not crush it.

“So, despite the fact that you find her pretty, you’re still too obsessed with that other guy who used your couch last week.”

“Why do you call him a ‘guy’? You know his name. It’s Marius.”

Montparnasse sighed. “You do so love to hear his name. Marius, Marius, Marius. Beautiful Marius.”

“Stop it. I’m not that obsessed.”

“You moan his name in you sleep sometimes.”

Éponine blanched and stared at him, her eyes bulgy. “Please tell me that’s not true.”

“You totally do. Once, you were drooling and your blanket was between your legs. You were clearly mumbling ‘Marus... Marus, more’. You also had this ugly dreamy look on your face. That was disturbing.”

“Shut the fuck up! He slept at hardly more than a few metres from me! Tell me that’s not true, now!” she started slapping Montparnasse on his thighs, as hard as she can. He let out a few ‘ow’ and tried to flee, but she launched herself at him and kept slapping him. She caught her arms.

“Stop before you do something stupid like leaving a mark!” Montparnasse roared, his bored and suave expression gone. When Éponine started kicking him, he pushed her away and she fell on the couch. She was up in no time. “You kick me again, I’M going to hit you! See if you like it!”

“I’m not scared of you, I’ve seen worse, so you can take it back now!” she yelled, raising her fist.

“Okay, okay! I made it all up. Calm the fuck down,” Montparnasse said, frowning. “Fucking hysterical bitch...”

“What did you just say?!” She threw herself at him again. He caught her and threw her on the couch again, but this time went after her to restrain her arms. He did not weight much, but he certainly had some muscle and Éponine struggled uselessly under him. When she stopped, he smirked, victorious.

“I said,” he repeated, eyes half-closed and mouth pursed, “that you were a fucking. Hysterical. Bitch!”

Éponine spat in his face.

Montparnasse looked completely stunned for a moment. Then he snorted and let her go. He lazily found his way to the bathroom to wash of the saliva.

“I don’t care about Marius that much!” shouted Éponine after him, a smile on her face.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire!” sang-song Montparnasse. “Besides...” he came back, a towel in hand, “Who care if you got a crush? Just tell him.”

“Right. So I can be completely humiliated when he says he’s not interested,” Éponine said, rolling her eyes.

“I’ve never seen you shy with a guy before.”

“Not the same thing.”

“What’s so different? You’re going to tell me you’re in love with him, now? I mean, you met him this Fall. You can’t be that attached that it makes you scared!”

Éponine shrugged. “I’m not in love, but... he’s a sweet guy. I don’t want to just fuck him. If I want a shitty fuck, I always have you.”

“Fuck you. I’m the best fuck you are ever gonna get,” declared Montparnasse. He slicked his wet air and winked at her. She snorted. “Seriously, though. I don’t understand why you wild girls get giddy over wimps like him. He’s a total drag. He almost piss his pants each time he sees me.”

“Who wouldn’t. You’re so funny, I’d piss my pants too.”

“Haha. Just didn’t know you liked your men weak, that’s all.”

“No. I like my men kind, oblivious and accidentally hilarious. Apparently,” Éponine replied, surly. “And I don’t even know if he likes women. Who the fuck follow a stranger home like that.”

“I do.”

“That does not reassure me in the least, thank you.”

“Oh, come on. You just said he was oblivious. He did not follow that guy with any dirty intent in mind, Ponine,” Montparnasse trailed. His bored expression was back.

“You never know!”

“My gay-dart did not tingle, darling. And it is infallible,” Montparnasse argued. “If that man had tried anything on him, he would be back on your couch, squirming uncomfortably and rambling about how he never saw it coming. Trust me.”

He came to sit on the couch next to Éponine and lazily swung an arm around her shoulders. She smiled and her hand immediately went to Montparnasse’s groin where it gave a playful squeeze. He groaned.

“What I don’t understand,” Montparnasse said, leaning on Éponine and undoing her ponytail with his hand, “Is why he’s not allowed to see someone else while you have no qualms doing it on your side. Hypocritical much?”

She threw back her head so he could trail kisses down her neck. She laughed a dry little sound. “He’s allowed to do whatever the fuck he wants. The problem is that he’s naive. I worry about people taking advantage...” she moaned when Montparnasse sucked a spot between her neck and shoulder. His other hand went under her shirt.

“Not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe you should have when you had the chance,” he murmured. He helped her getting rid of her shirt. She was wearing a cheap, stained black bra. Montparnasse cocked his head and eyes it disapprovingly. She got rid of it and felt the cold of the place erecting her nipples. She shivered.

“I don’t want to fuck him. Not that way. He’s not you. Now, that’s a good thing,” she said. He smirked and removed his leather jacket and his Rush T-shirt.

“Of course. There can be only one like me.”

“Oh, maybe I know another,” she giggled, thinking back to what Floreal told her. Montparnasse frowned and stopped sucking at her skin. He stiffened.

“What do you mean?”

“Floreal told me about some blonde beauty she saw. Apparently, he looks like a ‘Greek statue’. Another androgynous male ready to break hearts,” Éponine said. She took Montparnasse’s hand and put it back on her breast. He rubbed it, rolling his eyes.

“Oh. But that’s just the looks. Doesn’t mean he owns them like I do,” he smiled. “Plus, Floreal’s tastes are always a bit peculiar.”

“Does the name ‘Enjolras’ tells you something?” Éponine asked.

Montparnasse wrinkled his nose and kept playing with Éponine’s breast, more mechanically. She sighed and stopped him. She started unbuckling his belt.

“Ah. Angel face,” he said. When she looked up, interrogation points in her eyes, he added “One of the infamous red squares? He was leading a march outside your apartment and they kept banging spoons on frying pans and saucepans. We threw eggs at them. Gavroche did not talk to you for a week after that.”

“Ohh. That’s the guy. He _is_ just as pretty as you are. Just way more annoying. Nothing on you.”

“Don’t I know that.”

“So you know about Marcel’s new name?”

Montparnasse nodded. “Gavroche. That sounds like the mischievous version of ‘gamin’. I like it. Don’t you?”

“Heh. I’m sure he did it as a form of rebellion. And of course, you encourage him.”

Montparnasse laughed. “That’s what kids need, no? Being encouraged?”

“Not if it means being manipulated.”

“Oh, come on. I’m kind to your siblings. I haven’t made him try weed... yet. Don’t glare. That’s a joke. Do you really want to talk about your little brother while we’re doing this?”

Éponine got Montparnasse’s penis out of his pants and gripped it hard. He yelped. In retaliation, he grabbed her by the hair and pushed her head down towards his prick.

She let him.

  
***

  
A few days later, on the weekend, Cosette was beginning her first shift at The Leston. Éponine was there for her training. In spite of herself, she had volunteered so Cosette would be with a familiar face. She regretted it the minute the girl started to chitchat about ballet, her father, her teachers and her deceased mother. Éponine did not know what to reply to any of the confidences Cosette was making. She was a real blabbermouth. For someone who did not want to bother Éponine with her search for a job, she sure did not mind bothering her with her endless impressions on everything. At least, Floreal was usually quiet. Strangely, it was Marius who saved Éponine from saying something that would hurt her new colleague.

Marius arrived twenty minutes after noon in the coffee shop, bursting from outside like a nervous gust of wind. He surveyed the place excitedly and sprung to Éponine when he saw her. She tried to glare at him, but he took her hands and shook them both like the awkward mess that he was. The patrons at the table, a couple of sexagenarians, giggled behind a polite hand and exchanged a knowing glance. Éponine could not help but raise her head smugly at the thought that they were assuming them to be a couple.

“Ponine! I am so sorry for not coming back to give news of myself!” Marius exclaimed.

“I was worried,” she said, not smiling.

“I know, I was worried too!” Marius said a little too loudly. When Éponine threw him a confused look, he stuttered: “I-I mean about you. I was afraid to bother you because you already helped me so much before.”

Éponine scoffed. She pulled at his hand so he would follow her in the kitchen. The cook and his assistant gave her warning glares, but she ignored them. It was almost her half-hour lunch anyway.

“The least you could have done was to tell me how you were doing at that Courfeyrac’s house,” she berated. Marius looked down at his feet. They were still holding hands.

“I guess I should have, I’m sorry. Oh, but Courfeyrac is a great person! He introduced me to his friends and he let me help him around the house —which is enormous! His friends have all interesting opinions about... well, about everything. They are sometimes a little too radical for me, especially Enjolras, but they are all very nice. Courfeyrac, especially, is such a nice fellow! Like you, Éponine. He is going to let me stay until I find an apartment, although he did insist I would just stay there permanently.”

Éponine tried not to sulk at all the praise these strangers were getting while all she got was a meagre “sorry”. She nodded and twirl her wrist so he would hurry. He eventually stopped rambling, his cheeks a bit pink.

“Oh, Ponine, you got to come and meet with us!” Marius cried out. He smiled as though he just had the best idea in the world. “Each week they meet between classes. This week, it’ll be on Monday evening. At five. At the Musain. Will you come? I’ll introduce you as a grand friend!”

Éponine felt herself blush. The sensation was particularly unpleasant. She offered Marius a big sarcastic smile, but her heart was beating hard. They were still holding hands. “‘Kay. Sure. If you insist.”

“I do insist!”

“Éponine?”

They both turned towards Cosette, who’d just entered the kitchen. She looked at them curiously, but smiling. Marius nodded at her. He let go of Éponine’s hand.

Sighing, Éponine pointed at the girl. “Marius, that’s Cosette Valjean. Cosette, that’s Marius Pontmercy.”

“Enchanté!” they both said. Cosette beamed at Marius while he smiled shyly at her. She turned towards Éponine.

“I know this is the lunch break, but I have trouble with the cash register again,” she said.

Marius was pushed out of the kitchen.

  
***

  
When work was over, Éponine and Cosette walked together to the subway station. Cosette started to chat mindlessly about everything that passed her mind. She inquired about Marius.

“I met him this Fall,” Éponine said. “I was at La Ronde with a friend and my brother. The friend pissed me off while I was trying to win a plushy, so I threw a ball at him. The ball hit Marius in the eye. We’ve seen each other regularly since then.”

“So he’s your boyfriend?” Cosette asked, clasping her hands. Éponine shook her head, but she almost smiled.

“Nope. He did not even stay at my apartment when he needed it. He preferred to follow a stranger and make new friends,” she said, sighing.

“Ah? Perhaps he was feeling bothersome,” Cosette suggested.

“He did. Still. Not giving sign of life for over a week, that sucks. He says he cares, but he often forgets about me.”

“Perhaps he’s less at ease with girls, then. Or you intimidate him.”

“You think I’m intimidating?” Éponine asked. She remained unsurprised when Cosette nodded, a big grin stamped on her lips. “Oh, well. Maybe I am.”

“I could use some new friends,” pondered Cosette. “I hang out with a few girls, but they seem to only tolerate me most of the time.”

“Seriously? I thought you would have tons of friends.”

“Oh, I’m too savage for that!” Cosette stated, laughing. Éponine did not know what to make of it. She shrugged.

They arrived at the subway station.

“You know, Marius invited me to go to that meeting with his new friends on Monday. I’m not that good by myself with strangers, so... If you want to come, knock yourself out.”

Cosette practically squealed before hugging her. Éponine soon pulled away.

“That is so kind of you!” Cosette exclaimed.

When they sat in the train, Cosette locked their arms happily. Éponine shivered, but she did not pull away this time. It felt nice to have someone touching her this casually. Nevertheless, this was Cosette, and Éponine did not know why the girl was suddenly so attached to her. She never was before, though she was always polite and kind. Perhaps she really needed other friends. Was Cosette getting bullied? Or were her friends too stupid or bitchy? Who knew.

When Éponine got out of the train at her subway station, Cosette followed her. She did not even ask if she could come. Éponine stared at her in annoyance.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you early a few stations?”

“Oh, I told my father I would eat at yours,” Cosette said. She seemed to realize that Éponine’s permission was missing in her equation. She giggled. “I forgot to ask you. I hope that’s not a bother?”

“Let’s just say you’re not a Marius,” groaned Éponine, “but fine. Tonight is spaghetti night.”

Cosette kept making the conversation by herself until they reached Éponine’s apartment. Éponine turned up the heating, shed her coat and went to look for a saucepan, a pack of pastas and the bolognaise sauce she had bought a few days earlier. Cosette asked if she could help, but Éponine said no.

“Try not to look at the state of the place. I don’t always have the time to clean up,” she said distracted. “There’s water, Pepsi, beer and orange juice in the fridge.”

“I would like...” Cosette paused. Her tone was a little too serious if she was thinking about what she wanted to drink. Still, what followed was “...water. I can’t drink too much sugary beverages because I must keep a certain weight for the ballet. I also have to watch out for what I eat so I can stay healthy and in shape. Not that you’re not: it’s just that they are very strict with that kind of things.”

“You go at L’École Supérieur de Ballet, right?”

“Yep. A few years ago, I had the main role in the Nutcracker. I hope to have another main role one day. Want me to show you a few moves?”

Éponine snorted. “I would be very impressed, but I wouldn’t be able to tell why it’s great. Don’t jump. The guy underneath me is a total jerk and he will not hesitate to come here to complain and to ogle at our boobs.”

Cosette wrinkled her nose. “He comes to stare at you?”

“He’s a single perv, nothing I can’t handle. Besides, I look at guys too.”

“Like at Marius?” Cosette teased.

“No, I told you, we’re just friends,” Éponine said casually. “Like at my friend Kevin. Like at... I don’t know, that guy, Enjolras. He looks like a pretentious jerkass, but he’s pretty.”

Cosette startled and looked at her with a weird expression. “You know someone called Enjolras?”

“I don’t _know_ him, but I’ve _looked_ at him. Hard to avoid, he was all over the news last year. Also, my friend’s neighbour is probably fucking him. Why, do you know him?”

“I know Geneviève Enjolras, the new dance teacher. She taught in Quebec city, and before that she was kind of a minor star in the ballet world. I think she even went to France! Surely are they related!”

“Well, do they look like each other?”

“I did not follow the news last year, so I don’t remember what your Enjolras looks like. Miss Enjolras is tall, blonde and absolutely beautiful.”

“Must be his mother. Ain’t that fucking quaint. I’ll tell Floreal when I see her next. I’ll introduce you two, too. She was not here today, but she’ll be there Monday.”

They spent the rest of the evening watching a horror movie. More accurately, Cosette started riffing the movie from the first bit of dialogue and Éponine followed suit. It was a basic haunted house story with basic idiotic archetypal characters. They had a lot of fun.

At eight, Cosette received a phone call from her step-father and had to go. She excused herself, a moue pulling her lips down.

“He worries a lot about me,” she said.

“That’s nice. More than I can say about my own parents.”

That was the worst thing to say. An awkward silence passed between the two of them while they just stared at each other. Éponine was afraid that Cosette would make a comment about their past, or how Éponine couldn’t afford to talk like that about her parents. She did none of that. She ended up shrugging and smiling.

“Well, in that case, that’s what friends are for!” She hugged Éponine again and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you on Monday...?”

“At five. The Musain. It’s the Café right next to the hotel Terrasse Royale, on Côte-des-Neiges.”

“Ah, not too far from our workplace, then! Thanks again for the job. And the supper. And the invitation. Next, you could come at my home. My father likes to have guesses.”

Perhaps Éponine had been stupid to avoid Cosette all these years. Surely, the girl did not begrudge her her past behaviours anymore. She was acting all sweet and friendly. Perhaps it was time to sweep all these bad memories away and to mingle with more people, such as Cosette. She was everything, but a bad person. Besides, something told Éponine that she was going to get along fine with Floreal and Marius. She might even be able to stand up to Montparnasse, though Éponine was in no hurry to let them converse: Montparnasse was already a bad influence on Gavroche, she did not need him to try to ‘corrupt’ Cosette for shit and giggles. Although he had failed to do so with Marius, he had tried with Floreal which had caused disastrous results.

Cosette, though, was not as innocent as she looked like with her girly looks and her sweet antics. She was unafraid and bold. Like Éponine herself. Only a softer, cuddlier version. Not a better one, though. Not a better one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The chapter is called "Sarah without Smile"  
> -The lyrics mean "I knit myself a heart / Of steel wood and barbed wire / I follow the string of my moods / And I give no damn about the world"  
> -Marcel means "Little Warrior".


	5. La Foule (Enjolras)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras and Grantaire still gravitate towards each other and things heat up a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Very awkward attempt at examining Enjolras' privilege (I'm sorry)  
> -Half-assed sex scene.  
> -Bizarre family situation

 

 _Quand soudain je me retourne_  
 _Il se recule_  
 _Et la foule vient me jeter entre ses bras_  
 _Emportés par la foule qui nous traîne_  
 _Nous entraîne_  
 _Écrasés l'un contre l'autre_  
 _Nous ne formons qu'un seul corps_  
 _Et le flot sans effort_  
 _Nous pousse enchaînés l'un et l'autre_  
 _Et nous laisse tous deux_  
 _Épanouis, enivrés et heureux_  
~Édith Piaff

 

  
Enjolras was staring in awe and anger at Grantaire who had interrupted him in the middle of a sentence. He did not even know what he wanted to say anymore, because Grantaire had interrupted him to ask if someone was free to go to a bar afterwards. The others were all staring at him, some in shock, other with a bemused scowl, and a few with a smirk. One of the latter was Bahorel who barked out a laugh and raised his hand. Feuilly followed suit, as well as one of the girls who showed up claiming to be with Marius. Grantaire started talking about how the Dante&! was the best pub nearby. Enjolras flushed and pointed an accusing finger towards Grantaire.

“Have you not paid any attention to what I just said?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, but I thought I would stop you before you start embarrassing yourself,” Grantaire answered cheekily. The girl with the ponytail raised her cup of coffee in agreement. When Courfeyrac laughed and Feuilly smiled, Enjolras let out an indignant sound. Yet, he felt self-conscious and curious.

“And what did I say that was so shameful?”

“Nothing yet, but you’re basically talking out of your ass,” Grantaire said. He had an ugly scowl on his face, as though he truly thought Enjolras was an imbecile. “Pretending to talk for an entire population, or ‘community’ if you happen to like that term, is not helpful: it is pretentious, obnoxious and ignorant. Don’t want you to regret any word you utter, is all.”

With the sensation of his blood boiling and his stomach turning into knots, Enjolras turned towards the others to see if anyone would come to his defence, or further explain to him what he did wrong. He locked eyes with Feuilly: his blue eyes were kind and soothing. He nodded at Enjolras and cleared his throat.

“I don’t think you are pretentious or obnoxious,” he said softly, “but you want to tackle a bunch of issues that you shouldn’t put all in the same basket. You are not the best spokesperson either. Don’t forget that you are, and I say that without malice, a white gay male. In fact, looking at your little group —which is great, by the way— I think you miss a bit diversity. I mean, if I understood correctly, Éponine and Cosette here are not exactly part of the group, so you don’t have any women. Or trans women. And you being the spokesperson, though it assures that people will be more inclined to listen to you, well...”

Enjolras acquiesced slightly. He looked at the girls. He had not even remembered their names. The one with the ponytail —Éponine?— smirked at him and crossed her arms. The one with the long brown hair and the heart-shaped face smiled gayly and raised her hand. He nodded at her.

“I would be happy to be part of your group!” she exclaimed, “You can use the women, no? I’m sure Éponine and I would be great assets for—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Éponine cut her off. “I said nothing about joining a group. I’m not even queer. Are you?”

Cosette looked at her curiously. “You’re not? I shouldn’t have assumed, then. I’m bisexual. But I have to ask: is everyone here queer?”

Bahorel and Feuilly looked at each other guiltily and Marius squirmed. He was the next to speak.

“I am not, I admit... I just like having friends for once, and I thought educating myself on these matters was important. I am thoroughly sorry if my presence is unwanted!”

“Oh, Marius, honey, your presence is definitely wanted,” answered Courfeyrac, winking at him. Everyone seemed to agree that Marius had his place among them. Enjolras was still not too sure about the bubbly guy, but he admired his interest, so he just went with it. Marius beamed at Courfeyrac, and then at the girls. Cosette smiled at him. So did Éponine, but she also rolled her eyes.

“I’m definitely fluid. I think. I haven’t been with a dude yet,” Bahorel said. He threw a curious glance at Enjolras. “Will I be kicked out?”

He did not seem serious, like he already knew the answer, and he looked smug when Enjolras shook his head. Enjolras looked at his friends, one after the other. Combeferre was not much interested in sex, but he had some with women and guys. Courfeyrac liked all genders. Enjolras was gay himself, and so was Jehan. That was still a meagre sample. There were other people that joined in from time to time, but most of them were white gay males like himself, with some slight variations. He realized now that it was not enough, and he wanted to hit himself for not doing anything about it sooner. He turned towards Jehan, who had not spoken until now. He had written an article not only about, but _instead_ of them. Jehan had seem okay with it, but were they really? After all, Jehan was a writer. They could have written something on their website if it had really mattered to them. Was that what Combeferre meant when he qualified Enjolras of overzealous?

“I... this is an excellent point,” he finally conceded. He did not dare looking at Grantaire. “I should be more careful. Instead of speaking for different groups of people, I should invite them to talk. Cosette, it’d be great if you could join our group. Since Marius, Bahorel and Feuilly stay as allies, you can come back too, Éponine. We should start recruiting new members to solidify ourselves and enlarge our horizons.”

Grantaire snorted very audibly. “Okay, but where are you going to find your people, and don’t you think they would feel like tokens? Because it looks to me like Jehan here is a token to make you feel better. Tokens don’t speak for the entirety of the minority they belong to.”

Grinding his teeth, Enjolras stared at Grantaire who stared right back, an insolent smile stretching his lips.

“Jehan is not a token. They are our friend.”

“‘I have a friend who’s genderqueer!’ That’s exactly how you sound: defensive and smug because, wow, one person to represent an entire oppressed group.”

“I didn’t say we had to get one person to represent each gender and sexual minority! I want to expend QUEERBEC into something major, something people of any situation can go to when they need support, or when they want to express themselves.”

“I doubt this will amount to anything,” Grantaire replied.

“You can doubt,” Enjolras said, raising his voice, “You can never come back, if the thought is so absurd to you that you think you are wasting your time! I can believe for two. I can prove to you that our aspirations are not pursued in vain!”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre intervened, “Please calm down. Grantaire is obviously pulling your leg.” His friend took his hand and pulled, making him sit down. Then, he threw a glare of his own at Grantaire “If your goal is not to further the conversation, but simply to enrage Enjolras in a kind of bizarre foreplay, kindly do shut up.”

Grantaire seemed to shrink on himself a little, but he did not shut up. “I don’t know why your mind goes down the gutter, Combeferre. Am I not allowed to test the convictions of your great leader? Doth the sun shines down his arse?”

People started to stiffen around the table. Even Bahorel, who had been observing the scene with great amusement, now had a serious expression. Only Éponine seemed to not care about what was going on. Enjolras looked at Grantaire and opened his mouth, but Combeferre beat him to it.

“You raised good points, Grantaire, and no one here thinks that Enjolras is perfect. On the other hand, we have little patience for those who hassle out of boredom. This group is not a joke. Instead of provoking and trying to be witty, you could use some politeness.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “Feuilly was polite and I understood. I’m not against educating myself and correcting what I do wrong.”

“Now, that’s just tone policing and pretentiousness,” Grantaire scowled. He was looking a little miserable. “You are all going to choke on your political correctness and raised little fingers.”

“Political correctness is important,” Feuilly said. “You are trying to be an asshole, punk.”

“But I’m not! I am merely worried about the purpose and the usefulness of a group like this! Don’t want you all to lose your time on stuff you can’t change, is all.”

“We most certainly can change things, or encourage change anyway,” Enjolras retorted.

“What, by walking around with pans and little red squares?”

“We won!”

“Not because you won over anyone, but because you’ve been exploited by a political party! Not because people loved you, but because they were tired of the previous prime minister of Quebec! And with your QUEERBEC thing? You’ll all just get hurt.”

“Better than sit on our asses doing nothing, content with dwelling in cynicism!”

“Okay, that’s enough!” yelled Combeferre. Enjolras and Grantaire, who were so focussed on each other, both startled. When they turned around, the patrons of the café were staring at them, some of them mumbling in a tone that was most likely not approval. Enjolras had not noticed they had raised their voices so loud.

Mr Musichetta, the owner of the Musain, found his way to them nervously.

“I’m sorry, Aurel, but I will have to ask that you and your friend leave now. You are disturbing my other clients.”

“I understand,” Enjolras said. His heart was beating fast and his face was red. He forced himself to calm down so he would not offend Mr Musichetta, who was a good man for letting them stay for hours in his workplace. “Can the others stay?”

“Well... yes, though I would ask you Combeferre to not yell like that again.”

“Of course, sir.”

After having put on his coat and taken his messenger bag, Enjolras saluted everyone, apologized to Mr Musichetta and almost ran out of the café. He heard Grantaire giving Bahorel, Feuilly and Éponine directions to meet him at the pub later. He did not look back at him.

  
***

  
It was difficult to ignore the man following him around and practically begging for his attention. He thought about just telling Grantaire to leave him alone, but he could not help enjoying the other’s efforts to reconcile without actually apologizing. He was still angry though. He got annoyed when Grantaire sat in front of him in the subway train. He could hardly look elsewhere without seeming desperate, so he just stared rudely at Grantaire, his brows creased and his jaw set. Grantaire squirmed, but he smiled at him nonetheless.

The train being too loud, Enjolras did not get everything that Grantaire was saying, but the latter did not stop talking. When they got out at Outremont, he was still rambling. None of what he said seemed to be an apology. It was all gibberish spewed in an attempt to lighten the mood, or to pass off as indifferent. He did look a little taken aback by Enjolras’ stubborn silence. As they walked and Enjolras tried to concentrate on the directions to take to get back home, Grantaire was still going at it, his tone more insistent. He asked questions that went unanswered because they were so irrelevant Enjolras thought Grantaire was still mocking him. As they arrived at his place, he turned towards Grantaire.

“Are you going to follow me inside too?” he blurted out, his hands tightened into fists.

Grantaire was looking at the house. He whistled. “Looks like you’re well-off. We should have come here instead of my lousy shack of an apartment.”

It was true that Enjolras’ house was nice to look at, but he considered it ordinary. It was even smaller than his house back in Quebec City, and it had no personality. Of course, next to Grantaire or Jehan’s apartments, it seemed big and luxurious, but Enjolras cringed each time he had to come back there. He avoided inviting people inside and preferred going at his friends’. The thought of Grantaire getting in gave him cold sweat.

“Yes, well, my family is,” he said.

“And you by proxy.”

“If you want,” Enjolras sighed. “Whatever. We all don’t get along in there. I don’t advise you to come in and see for yourself. You should go now.” He turned away.

“Wait!” Grantaire exclaimed. “Are you still angry?”

“Yes, R. Although your constant blabber tired the fury in me.”

“The fury in you is inextinguishable,” Grantaire denied. He put his hands in his pockets. “If you don’t want me to come in... want to come to my place to make out?”

Enjolras scowled and hurried inside. He slammed the door shut.

  
***

  
Since they had met, Grantaire and Enjolras’ relationship had been ardent at its best, and tumultuous at its worse. They argued every time they saw each other, but they always gravitated towards each other anyway. Grantaire was most especially stubborn in keeping this going. He was the provocative one, but he was also the one who would make the first steps towards reconciliation. They had established a pattern. And it had been a couple of weeks.

Courfeyrac and Jehan teased Enjolras about this new development in his life. They both seemed to get along with Grantaire, who made them laugh and fitted right in since he had sexual stories to share with them and the personality of an extravert. Combeferre was a little more sceptical, but he did not judge and he told Enjolras that if he was happy, then he would not say anything. Thanks to Grantaire, Bahorel and Feuilly had promised to show up more often. Whether it was out of real interest or out of concern for their friend, Enjolras could not say, but he was glad. Feuilly appeared to be socially conscious and enthused by the conversations. Bahorel was, at the very least, a good listener. They looked up at him with respect. Not that Grantaire felt contempt towards him, but he was the most hardened pessimist Enjolras has ever met and he was aggressively resistant to any idea about how to improve a situation. He was also prone to mood swings, and apparently drank as much as possible each night.

According to what he’d told Enjolras, Grantaire worked as a clerk at the Musée d’Art Contemporain of Montreal. He also did guided tours of the place, and occasionally served as a night-watchman. He got the job because he was an ex art student, knew each nook of the museum and had contacts. He kept saying that he’d do the job for free if he did not need the money. Enjolras asked why he had dropped out of university if he liked art so much, but Grantaire had laugh it out and reminded Enjolras that he was no artist, let alone an intellectual.

The job didn’t keep Grantaire from showing up at the meetings, texting Enjolras every day, and giving him a lift for school when he could. Deep down, he was a very nice, considerate person with lots of interests. Nevertheless, he did not like being seen that way. He called himself a slob and a jerk. When he and Enjolras kissed, he was always dazed and amazed as though Enjolras was granting him some sort of favour. They had not done anything else yet.

Enjolras sneaked inside his room on his tiptoes to avoid both his mother and his grandmother. He removed his winter clothes, let them on his chair and lied on his bed, sighing. He took his phone and checked for new messages. He had seven.

 

_[Combeferre]: Are you going to be alright? Grantaire said he was going to apologize and went after you. I thought I’d let you two sort it out. Text me if you need anything._

  
_[Courfeyrac]: Oy! u ok?! I wanted to follow you, but Ferre said no :(_

  
_[Jehan]: You all right, buddy? You should go at the Dante pub to cool off tonight :)_

  
_[R]: Im freezing outside :(_

_[R]: I was joking. We don’t have to kiss_

_[R]: Is your room at the front of your big house?_

_[R]: Look out yur window_

  
Enjolras frowned and looked at the window curiously. He was still angry. That did not mean he was not compel to look out the window. He still took the time to answer his friends’ texts so they would not worry. He did not know if he was grateful they had not followed him, or if he’d have preferred they had told Grantaire to back off. When he went to the window, Grantaire was still there. He waved at Enjolras when he saw him. Enjolras almost expected him to make some kind of grand gesture. However, Grantaire was not alone.

There was his mother, not wearing any coat, her arms tightly wrapped around herself, standing next to the man and staring right at him. Obviously, she had heard him slam the door, had looked and seen Grantaire and had come to talk to him. Enjolras sighed and bumped his head against the glass.

  
***

  
Geneviève Sauvageau was a tall, elegant woman who taught ballet in a specialised school in Montreal. She was the first person in her family to have chosen an artistic profession and most of her relatives looked down on her for it. She was not the type to care. She carried herself with her head held high and her eyes throwing daggers. It was not only confidence that emanated from her, but also the conviction of being above all matters. Enjolras never knew if she really thought that: on top of being rather secretive, she never denied the claim that she was stuck up or a snob.

Geneviève and Enjolras loved each other in a violent, resentful way.

They were protective of each other, but did not hesitate to snap, bark and bite, angry creatures too similar to get along in a close environment. They would enter scream matches on a regular basis, but Geneviève could not bear the thought of living without her son yet, and Enjolras did not want to leave her alone with his grandmother. Many had looked upon their mother-son relationship with worry and thought it abusive: both of them had brushed out these concerns. They clung to their venomous link like it centred them. Geneviève had even kept the legal name of Enjolras so it was clearer for her son that she felt close to him in spite of everything.

When she had heard of Grantaire, Geneviève had ranted about how Enjolras was at last starting university and that he didn’t need to go about frolicking with the first stranger he met who helped him. She said that in front of her own mother, which sparked a grossly homophobic tirade that enraged Enjolras so much he had to cry tears of fury in his room afterwards. He had listened to his grandmother call him an abomination, tried to explain to her how that wasn’t true, and was promptly rebuffed. Geneviève did not come to comfort him.

Enjolras had no idea why his mother invited Grantaire inside for a cup of hot chocolate, but knowing her, it could be either a bizarre apology for something she did or another way to ruffle his feathers. She looked at Grantaire with a confused expression, like he was not what she would have expected. Grantaire did not seem to mind.

“You’ll have to excuse my son’s attitude. He’s always been resilient and bad-tempered,” Geneviève said. She sipped at her tea, raising her brows at her son to dare him to deny any of that. Enjolras just pinched his lips and stared. It did not last: Grantaire swallowed his hot chocolate. It left him with a pale brown milk mustache and Enjolras smiled.

“I deserved it,” Grantaire said. “I was mean before.”

Geneviève frowned. “You were? What did you do or say?”

“I... instead of discussing things politely, I was rude and implied that Enjolras was an idiot. I did not mean to,” he looked at Enjolras, “I apologize. I retain my arguments, but there was a nicer way to phrase them.”

Uneasy, Enjolras exchange a glance with his mother who seemed to have lost interest. She was staring at her hands encircling her cup. She pursed her lips when he did not say anything. That was a sign of quiet disapproval, but she did not care enough to voice it. Enjolras grinded his teeth. His mother could be passive-aggressive.

“I accept your apology, and I’m sorry for reacting badly to your taunting,” he grumbled. Grantaire shook his head.

“That’s fine, like I said, I was being mean.”

“Aurel can be mean too. In fact, so can I. So you better watch out, Viateur,” Geneviève said in a murmur. Grantaire blinked and Enjolras slapped his forehead with his palm.

“Geneviève, please don’t threaten my friend on my behalf. Also, don’t call us by these names. I told you: we prefer our surnames.”

“I do not call people by their surname. That is dated and confusing if I get to meet the rest of their family.”

“But—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. Her cold eyes did not leave her cup of tea, and yet Enjolras could feel the stare and the menacing glint in it. The phone rang. From the second floor, Enjolras’ grandmother yelled at Geneviève to get it. She sighed and slowly got up to answer.

Enjolras and Grantaire remained seated. At first, they did not exchange a glance or a word, but as the time passed, they started looking at each other shyly. Grantaire finally extended his arm and offered his palm. Enjolras gently put his hand in it. Grantaire’s palm was rough. His fingers were pudgy. His nails were dirty. Enjolras noticed that the thumbnail was painted black. Only the thumbnail.

“I meant it, you know. I never know when to shut up and people end up thinking that I mock them. Well, I was definitely mocking, but not in a condescending, contemptuous way. I don’t despise you at all. Actually, it’s quite refreshing to hear you talk. I told you before.”

Enjolras nodded. He turned his hand and squeezed Grantaire’s own. “It’s okay. I’m too easy to rile up. Courfeyrac has told me numerous times.”

“You’re passionate, is all.”

“Too much passion, not enough reason?”

“Something like that,” Grantaire teased. They shared a smile. “You want to come to the Dante&! ? I’ll pay you a drink.”

Enjolras bit his lower lip. He did have some readings to do and a small essay to begin. On the other hand, it was nothing he could not catch on later. His friends, minus Combeferre, had all told him to take advantage from the beginning of the year to loosen up before the midterms. It did not have to be more than a drink or two.

“Aurel, this is the other Enjolras on the phone. He wants to—”

“I’m gone,” said Enjolras hurriedly. In no time he was up, his heart beating too fast and anxiety washing over him. “With Grantaire. At a pub. I will be back later. Love you, Gen.”

He avoided to look at the phone, bypassed his mother and just like that, he was upstair, grabbing his coat and his phone and running back downstairs, ignoring his grandmother’s yells about how he ought to be quieter. Grantaire was waiting for him.

  
***

  
“Do you always call your mother by her first name?” Grantaire asked in the train. It was packed, so they were pressed one against each other near the wall.

“For as long as she keeps calling me Aurel, yes. This fight has lasted since I was eleven, and it’ll probably go on forever. What, do you call your parents mommy and daddy?”

“Nah, I don’t call them,” Grantaire said enigmatically. Having his own problems with his father, Enjolras did not insist.

He let Grantaire nuzzle his neck in front of everyone, but got a bit nervous when he started to drop little kisses on his neck.

“R,” he muttered, “not here.”

Grantaire pecked him on the lips and stopped. He seemed disappointed.

  
***

  
Dante&! was not the kind of place Enjolras would have imagined it to be. It was... stylish without being posh. The floor was made of wood and the walls were a dark crimson. The tables and the large booths were ebony. There were white statues and statuettes everywhere. Instead of the pop music Enjolras was used to hear each time Courfeyrac dragged him into a club, some smooth piano was playing in the background. The clientele was made out of ordinary folks, though some of them had clearly made a valiant effort to wear nice, expensive-looking clothes. It looked more like a café than a bar.

“Did you bring me in an artsy pub?” Enjolras asked, amused.

Grantaire shrugged. “The alcohol here is fine. So’s the food and the price is cheap enough. I’m gourmand. Oh, look. Everyone’s already here. It appears that your little meetings don’t last long when we’re not there to spice things up.”

Enjolras looked around and saw that Éponine, Cosette, Bahorel and Marius were sat in a booth in the back of the pub. They looked surprised to see him. He waved at them and approached their table. Marius smiled.

“Enjolras! What a nice surprise! We thought you would be too angry, or busy, or both to come and join us.”

He even got up and offered his hand for Enjolras to shake. He did, a bit weirded out by the mix of formality and familiarity Marius could show. At least, the boy appeared to be happy.

“Weren’t you with Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asked.

“He decided to stay with Combeferre. Éponine wanted me to come,” Marius answered. He also offered his hand to Grantaire who made a show of balancing it in an exaggerated motion. It made the boy giggled.

“Enjolras decided to forgive me for my outrageous manners,” Grantaire declared. “So I’m going to celebrate! Now If you excuse me, Gract the barman will be waiting for my command.”

He left with a bounce in his step. Enjolras removed his coat and hung it on the nice black coat rack that stood next to each booth. It was hard to find a place since everyone had done the same. He sat next to Marius, who was sitting next to Éponine. In front of him, Bahorel and Cosette were playing a game of throwing dimes into a pint of blonde beer. Bahorel gave one to Enjolras.

“Wanna show off?” His smile was all teeth and cheek.

“I never played that game,” Enjolras protested.

“Then we’ll have a good laugh when you throw it in someone’s face! Come on.”

Sighing, Enjolras took the dime and carelessly pitched it on the table. It bounced and landed on the rim of the pint, but did not went in. Bahorel still whistled and Cosette clapped. Éponine hummed.

“That’s good luck,” she said, “Lack a little practice, but you did not even aim. Look at how the pros do it.”

She took a dime on the table, closed one eye, aimed and threw it. It ended up right in the middle of the pint, sinking slowly into the beer. Éponine looked proud when Bahorel laughed, raised his pint at her and drank. Enjolras deduced that she was a regular in pubs and clubs. He wondered if Grantaire was any good at this game. Probably.

Think about the wolf and he comes: Grantaire came back from the bar with three glasses of what looked like whisky tucked between his arm and his chest, and a long glass filled with some sort of bright cocktail decorated with a piece of orange and a cherry in his other hand. He put that one in front of Enjolras before sitting next to Bahorel, aligning his whiskies in front of him. Bahorel sighed and stole one of the glasses. Grantaire glared at him.

“Dude, easy on the booze. You work tomorrow. Besides, I want to know if mademoiselle Cosette here can drink whisky without grimacing,” he said, smiling at Cosette. The girl was nursing a mere glass of water. She wrinkled her nose when Bahorel put the strong alcohol next to her. She still took it, but she seemed unsure as though if she wanted to answer to the challenge.

“You don’t have to drink it, Cosette,” proposed Marius. He had a Heineken in one hand.

Éponine nodded. “It’s just some gross alcohol that men drink to feel manly or to lose their mind.”

The guys stared at her and she smirked. Cosette shrugged and took a sip. She did not grimace or pulled a disgusted face. Rather, deadpan, she spat it back in the glass. Marius, Bahorel and Grantaire laughed gayly. Éponine made grabby hands at the glass and Cosette immediately pushed it at her. She downed the whole thing without problem.

“Impressive!” Grantaire said. He had already drank one of his. He looked at Enjolras. “What about you? Don’t you like the liquid sunshine?”

Enjolras looked down at his drink. It was yellow and orange and it looked like juice. It was one of these things with a sexual name that were considered women drinks. Enjolras thought that gendering alcohol was stupid and most likely sexist —especially after having seen Éponine enjoy her whisky— but he couldn’t help wondering why Grantaire had picked it for him instead of just asking what he’d like. So he ignored the red straw and made a motion towards the remaining glass of whisky. Grantaire looked at him with surprise. It was irritating.

“What? Think I can’t handle my alcohol?” Enjolras asked.

“You do not seem the type,” Grantaire admitted.

“You really don’t,” Marius agreed. “You look like the sobber type. The designated driver, if you want. I, myself, don’t indulge much in alcohol. They say that people with problems tend to become addicted. Not that I think any of you are addicts. I just... I suppose that I could be like that. Courfeyrac said I barfed on his carpet when I went to his place the first time. I swore it would not happen again.”

Bahorel barked his booming laugh.

“Really now, Pontmercy? He forgot to mention that. Is that how a guest should act?”

“I-I’ll have you know I’ve been an exemplary guest! I do the dishes! I help Mrs Salvara with the laundry and I cooked! Besides, Courfeyrac’s parents told me themselves that he never invited someone so polite and well-mannered before.”

“Oh, well forgive me then. You have the means to make your future wife happy. Now, do you have the means to keep her satisfied?”

While Marius flustered, Enjolras stared at his drink worryingly. Would he act like an idiot if he drank too much? Most certainly. He was persuaded to be a light weight, which is why he rarely drank, and nothing more than one bottle of beer, which he did not even like. He did not even drink his mother’s carefully chosen wine. He still took the glass, threw his head back and drank.

It was nasty. Enjolras almost gagged, but he succeeded in downing half of the content. He hiccuped and stared at Grantaire. The latter was also looking at him, his pupils dilated and a crooked smile stretching his lips.

“What’s the name of the orange stuff?” Enjolras asked.

“A Sex on the Beach.”

“Was that what you were hoping for?”

Grantaire wet his lips, but he averted his eyes. Cosette gasped.

“Are you two together?” she exclaimed. She looked excited by the prospect, for some reason. Enjolras did not know what to answer. He exchanged a look with Grantaire who shrugged. “How can you not know?” Cosette persisted.

“‘Cause, mademoiselle Cosette, relationships usually start with frequentation and fooling around,” Bahorel said. He swung an arm around Grantaire and ruffled his hair. “Take this dude. He and I have wrestled together, it almost counts as fooling around. We got to know each other that way and now we know we couldn’t fuck because he’s a twat.”

“Hahaha,” Grantaire said. His dishevelled curls looked good on him. “Or rather because we rather kick the shit out of each other.”

“Why would you do that?” Marius exclaimed at the same time Éponine asked “You know how to fight?”

“We met in a kickboxing club,” Grantaire said. “Bahorel beat me to a pulp.”

“Now, now. I gave you many chances. Not my fault you were an awful novice at that time!”

“I’m still an awful novice, just one who knows some moves,” Grantaire retorted with a self-deprecating tone.

With his chubbiness and his artistic nature, Enjolras wouldn’t have guess Grantaire was one for sports. He was certainly confrontational, but nowhere near as troublesome as Bahorel, who yearned to be where the trouble awaited. Bahorel, for as long as he remembered, had always been a fighter and a man who liked to talk with his fists. Now, Grantaire was more the type to argue until the other person got bored or angry. Enjolras wondered if Grantaire had already been attacked for being a smart-ass. Enjolras had, back in high school. In fact, that was why he did not have many close friends and had to find some on the internet.

“It always seemed to me that if you fooled around with a guy just for fun, you were going to be called names,” Cosette said. “But I guess that’s not the case between two guys?”

Éponine took Bahorel’s pint and drank from it. When she was done, she looked as Cosette with mean, serious eyes. “Someone called you a slut before?”

Cosette shook her head. “Not me. I was called a carpet-muncher and a dike for going out with that one girl, though.”

Everyone made small compassionate sound. Marius looked particularly empathetic. Only Éponine grinned at her friend. “Well. That’s not too bad,” she said. “I’ve been called that and worse and I’ve never even touched a girl. I think that’s because I like to fight too. Never did kickboxing though, but I’ve learned some boxing moves from a friend and I can defend myself with a small knife.”

“Impressive!” Bahorel said. “Is that why you miss two teeth?”

“Oh, that? I got angry at a friend of that friend. We did not hold back. Don’t worry. He misses one tooth and I gave him two black eyes. He never tried me again.”

“What’s so attractive about violence, anyway?” Enjolras wondered out loud. Five pairs of eyes turned towards him with interrogation points shining in them. He shrugged. “I’m just asking. You all seem interested in achieving peace, yet you all like to fight.”

“That’s not the same,” Bahorel explained, “We’re fighting among ourselves to blow off steam and to learn to better defend ourselves in real fights. It’s also a way to feel in control.”

“ _Fighting_ makes me feel at peace,” Éponine added.

Grantaire changed the subject. “Aren’t you going to drink your Sex on the Beach? What about the whisky, can I have it back?”

“No, you can’t,” Enjolras said teasingly, but Grantaire pinched his lips.

“I paid for it.”

Enjolras slid the glass towards him and Grantaire immediately downed it. Enjolras also pushed the orange cocktail away from him. Grantaire did not fuss before taking it. He did not use the straw, but drank from the glass. He smacked his lips.

“You’d have liked it, I’m sure. Do you still want the cherry?” he picked the fruit between too pudgy fingers and pressed it against Enjolras’ mouth. He put the whole thing in his mouth and chewed. Cosette ‘awed’ at them and had glee in her eyes. Marius looked a bit uncomfortable by the display.

“Hey, do you know how to make a knot with your tongue?” Éponine asked. “Mine is too large; I have to spend ten minutes on it before succeeding.”

Curious, he kept the stalk of the cherry in his mouth and moved his tongue around. It was not that difficult, pushing the end of the stalk under and then into the circle he’d made. In a few seconds, the knot was made. He picked it out of his mouth and showed it to Éponine who smiled.

“Nice. But I guess there are other nice things he can do with his tongue. Do you agree, Grantaire?”

But Grantaire was not listening. He was looking at Enjolras with dilated pupils again. He had a dreamy look. His head was leaning lazily against his hand. It was clear, even for Enjolras, what he wanted. Yet, they hadn’t done anything more than a few kisses. Grantaire even hesitated to grope him through his clothes sometimes. He flirted endlessly, but he never asked for more. Perhaps he felt that Enjolras was not ready. The trouble being, he was.

It had not taken more than a few days for Enjolras to give up all notions of keeping relationships for after university. If he was honest, the first day, he knew that he’d have to revise his plans. He felt a bit sheepish, because it had been even faster than Courfeyrac, who randomly crushed after strangers not so long after meeting them. What if it was bound to end up like all of his friend’s relationships? What if Grantaire was just a fluke in his long-lasting disinterest in romance? What if Grantaire thought he was a prude, and decided to move on in spite of his claiming Enjolras was stuck with him? What if _Enjolras_ wanted to move on? These seemed like complicated matters.

“Perhaps I should try,” Enjolras blurted out.

“What, you never did?” Éponine inquired, surprised. Grantaire squirmed on his seat, a big smile on his face, but Bahorel elbowed him. Éponine frowned and turned her head towards him. “Behave yourself!” she barked.

“I never did anything either,” Cosette said. She did not look shy or ashamed, which was a good thing. “There’s nothing wrong either way, no? My father said to wait until I was ready, and to wait for someone who would respect me.”

“Your father is wise,” Enjolras said.

“I’m a virgin too!” Marius said. His cheeks and the tip of his ears were bright red, but he looked relieved, like he had not known if it was safe to utter such a thing before. He smiled at Cosette, who smiled back. Éponine laughed and slapped him on the arm.

“I bet you are, Marius. You are too gentle not to be at your age.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you are a good person. You are totally the type to wait for ‘the one’. Am I right, or am I right?” Marius only blushed at her questioning.

Grantaire was still grinning and shaking his head. “How do conversations in bars always end up revolving around sex?” he asked, “Anyway. I’m far from being inexperienced. I’ve had sex with lots of women. Few guys here and there too.”

“One of them being Floreal, right?” Éponine said.

“What the... you know Floreal Laplante?”

“She’s my friend. She told me she had a neighbour named Grantaire. I was surprised to see you at the meeting. So, you two fucked before? Because she seemed sure that you were not a hundred percent gay.”

Enjolras felt his stomach twist at the thought of Grantaire seeing someone else. He chased the feeling away. “Being gay is not a question of percentage,” he said.

“Leave me alone,” Éponine replied, “It’s a turn of phrase.”

“We had sex,” said Grantaire, shrugging. “Drunken, meaningless sex.”

“Perhaps it was not that meaningless for her, what do you think?” Éponine suggested. Her tone was harsh and rude and her eyes were bulging. She was smiling, but it contained no tenderness, no gentleness. Éponine smiled like a shark.

“Oh, come on!” Grantaire exclaimed, glaring at Éponine. “It’s not my job to guess other people’s feeling. I helped her carrying her bags, she offered me a beer, the beer turned out to be six beers and we had sex. Once or twice. She didn’t say anything about marrying me. In fact, pretty sure I’m not her type. We’re friends, is all.”

“I don’t know. When she talked about you, she seemed to like you well-enough. Although she did not tell me about you before.”

“Floreal doesn’t talk much, that you must have noticed?” Grantaire asked. It was rhetorical. He was starting to get irritated. “Anyway, why the hell do I have to talk about this specific instance? We’re talking about sexual experience here, not goddamn relationships.”

“Calm down dude. This is a casual fucking conversation,” Éponine said, leaning back on her seat.

“It looked like you wanted to rip off my head and spit in the hole!” Grantaire argued.

“So you don’t feel anything for that girl. Do you partake in casual sex often?” Enjolras asked before Éponine could defend herself. He could not have refrain from asking had he wanted to. When Grantaire looked at him, he felt adored, but perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Grantaire adored him the way one adore a shining new toy for a while before going to the next. Enjolras did not want that kind of relationship. The problem was that Enjolras had practically forced Grantaire to define their relationship as casual the first time they had kissed. They had not talk about it again. Maybe Grantaire thought it was perfectly okay for him to buzz from flower to flower, like Courfeyrac liked to do. He would not be wrong, because Enjolras had not voiced any rule, any constraint.

Marius and Cosette both gaped at him.

“What, you mean you don’t know?” Marius asked, tilting his head. He had followed the conversation with big, interested eyes. “But isn’t that one of the first thing to establish when you become a couple?”

“Marius is right. That’s a thing you should know before inadvertently hurting each other!” Cosette added. They shared a look, like two solemn accomplices. Grantaire was visibly uneasy in front of him.

“I have casual sex once in a while, when there’s an occasion,” he said softly, “but that’s because I’ve never... you all talk about how virginal you are. I’m not, but I haven’t been on a date. This ‘seeing each other’ thing, we have? That’s new for me.”

Relief washed over Enjolras. They were seeing each other, according to Grantaire. So they were on the same page. Grantaire was not waiting just a fuck out of him. At least, it didn’t seem so. He was looking at Enjolras with gentle, caring eyes. He had told Enjolras he was fiery, inspiring and refreshing. Enjolras smiled. Bahorel was not.

“What do you mean, you’ve never been on a date? You are twenty-four!” he exclaimed. “You have got to have asked someone out when you were in your teens, at least!”

“Hey, why do you care? I’ve never been on a date either,” Éponine said.

“Not even with that friend of yours? Montparnasse?” quipped Marius. He thought he was being teasing, but Éponine blushed violently and she mumbled something about ‘just a friend’.

“It’s just that it’s weird to me. Grantaire has this tendency to fancy people passionately,” Bahorel clarified. “He will ramble on and on about one specific person, recite poetry and shit...”

“Bahorel, please shut up,” Grantaire said. It was his turn to flush.

“You should hear the things he says about you, man!” Bahorel told Enjolras laughingly. Grantaire growled and elbowed him. Enjolras chuckled.

“You should hear the things I think about him,” said Enjolras. The look Grantaire threw him was positively sultry, but disbelieving. Bahorel grinned and Éponine groaned. Grantaire cleared his throat, averting his eyes.

“Anyway. I’d like to change the conversation because I’ve just met some of you, and I don’t want to expand on my love life any further. There are other things I’d like to know. Like, where the fuck is Feuilly? When I came here and didn’t see him, I thought he was in the restroom, but...”

“Fra received a call from one of his bosses. He had to take the night shift at his work.”

“That’s too bad,” Grantaire said, “Seriously, that guy’s gonna work himself into the ground.”

“Hell no, Fra’s indestructible,” denied Bahorel.

They spent the rest of the evening talking about this and that. Enjolras noticed that Bahorel was keeping Grantaire from drinking too much: each time he bough a new drink, Bahorel would drink half of it himself or make Grantaire talk so he’d drink more slowly. At eight, Cosette and Éponine excused themselves because the former had an early class. Marius decided to go along with them since he had a job interview in the afternoon and he wanted to prepare for it. Bahorel was the only one who remained. He kept eying Grantaire and Enjolras, like he wanted them to go. Grantaire had grown annoyed with his behaviour and was obviously ignoring him, talking loudly to Enjolras about how something called ‘My Bed’ was one of the best piece of conceptual art he knew and how he had tried to recreate it once. Bahorel cringed and put one of his large hand on his friend’s mouth. Grantaire licked him, but Bahorel remained unimpressed and serious. It was very unlike him.

“I think you two should go. You’re drunk, man,” Bahorel ended up saying. He cupped Grantaire’s face in his hands. “Come on. Show me if you can walk, and if you can, I’ll give you a lift.”

“You can be such a spoilsport, Bahorel!”

“You work tomorrow, Grantaire.”

“It’s R for you, now. Because I’m a grand R. Enjolras told me. Didn’t you, Enjolraaah?”

Enjolras nodded, but he was frowning. He had the impression that Grantaire was not that drunk. He’d been coherent a moment ago. He had also told Enjolras that he was a hard drinker. Somehow, it did not seem to fit that he would be this drunk after a few glasses. Perhaps he did want to go, but did not want people to know that he wanted to? Or perhaps Enjolras had a big imagination. He took his chance and got up.

“I’ll get him home,” he proposed.

“Yeah?” Bahorel said, “Do you have his keys?”

“We came here by train. I don’t know how to drive anyway.”

“Oh, I forgot. You and Combeferre dislike driving. Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll teach you. Are you going to be okay with Mr Bed, here?”

“Yes, I believe that I can handle him. He’s not going to vomit, is he?”

“I’ve seen him drunker... he should be fine,” Bahorel said. “Thanks, man. You be a nice guy and take care of him.”

As soon as they were out of the Dante&!, Grantaire was walking straight. He rubbed his eyes and smiled at Enjolras, grinning. “How did you like the performance?”

Enjolras laughed.

  
***

  
Without knowing why, Enjolras still went to Grantaire’s place. He did not need Enjolras’ help by any mean, but he did not protest when Enjolras did not part way at his station. They walked in silence to Grantaire’s apartment. Enjolras put his hand in Grantaire’s own. Grantaire did not even let go when they climbed the stairs or when he reached in his pocket to get his key. He pulled Enjolras inside and turned on the light. Enjolras closed the door behind them. The silence became a bit awkward, so Grantaire seemed to have to break it.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the talk of my sexuality,” he said. Enjolras almost balked at the absurdity of it.

“What the hell are you saying? I have no say in your past life, or even the present one. I don’t judge you at all. I don’t know if you’ve met Courfeyrac properly, but—”

“It’s not that. I meant, with the dating stuff. What Bahorel said about me getting extreme with the people I like...”

“He said no such thing. He said you were passionate and were very poetic,” Enjolras retort. He was smiling. “You talk to your friends poetically. About me. I fail to see how that should make me uncomfortable. Actually, this makes me really happy.”

Grantaire rubbed his neck, embarrassed. “Really? Because the last people whom I’ve tried to be romantic with, they told me to fuck off. It had scared them. I don’t blame them. I get so weird when I like someone.”

It was thrilling to hear him say that because it implied that he felt that way about Enjolras too. However, he did not look too excited himself. Enjolras suspected that Grantaire was accustomed to all kinds of heartbreaks.

“I don’t think you weird,” Enjolras said. “And even if I did, I happen to like bizarre people, those who do not conform to the societal expectations. Knowing that you can be passionate about something? That’s a good thing.”

Grantaire let out a laugh. “Or perhaps you are a bit narcissistic, and so you’d like to hear me chant about how great you are.”

“I’m not that great,” Enjolras disagreed.

“Yes. You are. You make my heart beat faster. You make me want to wake up early in the morning so that I can talk to you, and you make me want to sleep early at night so that I can see you in my dreams.”

Enjolras blushed, a bit flustered. Grantaire did not stop there.

“You make me want to partake in stupid debates. Last year, it was the same. I read the newspaper and watched the news, I informed myself about a bunch of issues, I went to marches... That’s... you awake something in me. And I know this is illogical, because I barely know you, but to me, you are great.”

Enjolras nodded, fiddling with the pans of his coat. He felt very hot and he was taken aback by Grantaire’s frankness. He did not know what to say. He searched inside himself words to express how he was feeling, but found none. He was used to words of protestation, formalities and speeches. He knew nothing about romance, how to woo someone, what was the name of the feeling that could eventually lead up to love. He felt a burning, crushing lust in his loins. Grantaire was still not stopping.

“I hope that you believe me. I hope that your friends tell you everyday. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe in perfection, but it is hard to look at you and not see all the potential there. All the pure... I don’t know. It is clear to me that you love honestly and that you really, deeply want the better for everyone.”

Enjolras unzipped his coat and threw it on the floor. He also removed his shirt, which he threw at Grantaire. The poor man let it go to the floor, looking unsettled, but Enjolras could not talk to explain. He had a lump in his throat. He fumbled with his boots and his pants. Grantaire just stood there, watching him strip with his mouth hanging open. When Enjolras found himself in red boxers in front of him, Grantaire finally reacted.

“What are you doing?!” he cried out. His voice was strained and laced with desire.

Enjolras was not even trying: he almost fell when he ripped a sock from his foot. He did not know how to look sexy. He figured he should let loose his hair too so he did, throwing his elastic on his pile of clothes. He shook his head so his blonde locks would fall his side of his face. He made a step towards Grantaire and made a move t unbutton his green coat. Grantaire caught his wrists.

“Enjolras,” he uttered simply, a pained expression on his face. He was trying to keep his eyes on Enjolras’ own, but it did not seem to help: Grantaire was red and he was trembling. Enjolras was amazed at the violent body reaction. How could he have so much effect on the man? He knew that he was considered pretty, but no one ever lost all their means like that in front of him. People were usually confident in catcalling him or inviting him places, as long as they didn’t know who he was. When they did, they lost interest. That was not Grantaire’s case. He rubbed his thumbs nervously on Enjolras’ hands.

“Don’t you think we should wait?” he let out. “I didn’t say any of that to pressure you or anything. I wanted to be honest, is all. I’m not expecting anything, really. You don’t have to.”

“R,” Enjolras said, and he carefully rolled the consonant in his throat. Grantaire shivered. “Please kindly shut up,” Enjolras ordered. “And kiss me,” he added after a second of hesitation.

Grantaire acquiesced and when Enjolras leaned down, their lips met halfway.

It was a pleasure to kiss Grantaire, to feel all his pent-up passion and lust trembling out of him. He had no clue if Grantaire was a great kisser, having no experience, but he felt like it was easy with him. They fitted. Each time their lips met, it caused a spark between them, a little shock, a little discharge. The rest of their bodies were stiff and Enjolras thought maybe it had to do with his nakedness and the fact Grantaire was still dressed up. He pulled away.

“Will you let me remove your clothes?” he asked gently. Grantaire looked like he was going to say no, but he let go of Enjolras’ hands and let him unbutton his coat. That was awkward. There was no ambiance music behind, only both their respiration and the sound of Enjolras fussing with the material. He felt embarrassed and tried to hurry up. Grantaire’s coat went to find his own on the floor. When he seized the pans of Grantaire’s sweatshirt, his wrists were encircled again. Grantaire was looking away, unsure.

Enjolras realized that he had never seen Grantaire naked. Or simply without a shirt. It was Winter, so it figured, but deep down, he knew that Grantaire must have felt self-conscious. The man was not a conventional beauty. That, Courfeyrac had told him repeatedly. ‘You have weird tastes Enjolras!’ and ‘You make an odd couple together! That’s adorable’. Yet, when he looked at Grantaire’s round face, at his deep blue eyes, his large nose, all the detail of his skin, even his hair —which Enjolras suspected he did not wash or brush often enough— he definitely felt a pang of something in his groin. If that was attraction, it felt pretty good, though the yearning was almost unbearable.

“I want to see you,” Enjolras said, smiling. He mouthed at Grantaire’s jaw like he’s seen Courfeyrac do to one of his girlfriends. Grantaire shuddered and shook his head slightly.

“You won’t like what you’ll see.”

“Please, trust me when I say that I find you very handsome,” Enjolras insisted. He pressed himself against Grantaire so the latter could feel him half-erected through his boxers. Grantaire gulped audibly and Enjolras laughed. “I’ve imagined you naked before,” he admitted.

“It’s not the belly or the fat, it’s... please do not make any comment. Any.” Grantaire demanded solemnly. Enjolras tilted his head, curious.

Grantaire stepped aside and removed his black sweatshirt. Enjolras trailed his eyes on his torso. Grantaire was hairy and he did have a beer gut, but what immediately got Enjolras’ attention was the number of small round marks on his right hip. Burn marks. Cigarette marks. A thousand questions prepared to pass Enjolras’ lips, but he saw Grantaire’s shameful expression and he said nothing. Grantaire had said no comment. It was none of his business, though he’d have to ask later.

Grantaire removed his pants next: his thighs also had cigarette marks, but also rows of small white scars. Either the man had been hurt in the past, or he had self-harmed. Enjolras bet it was the latter. He couldn’t say why, but the way Grantaire was handling himself, self-conscious and shrinking on himself, it felt as though it was a self-esteem issue rather than domestic violence. Enjolras had seen similar scars on his friend Jehan before they came to term with their gender identity.

“Sometimes I hate myself,” Grantaire confirmed in a breath, “In the past it was too much to keep inside. I’d appreciate it if you would remain silent about it.” Enjolras nodded. It was not his place to speak, even though information to see a therapist bubbled up in his head. Grantaire took his hand and pulled Enjolras to him. “So. You like your men chubby and ugly?”

“I don’t think you ugly,” Enjolras protested. Grantaire kissed him on the corner of his mouth.

“The rest of us mere mortals do.”

“If you want us to keep going, you’ll have to stop denigrating yourself. I’ve never wanted a sexual relationship more than now that I’ve met you. I’m holding you responsible for that.”

Grantaire barked a laugh and kissed him again. This time it lasted longer. A chaste, tender kiss. “I cannot promise anything,” he said against Enjolras’ cheek, “but you could always make me do something else with my mouth...”

It was Enjolras’ turn to kiss him, though he was not naive enough to think that it was what Grantaire meant. He pulled away and walked shakily towards Grantaire’s room. Soon enough, Grantaire appeared before him and blocked him.

“Wait here, I’ll only need a second...” he said before disappearing in his room, closing the door behind him. Dumbstruck, Enjolras listened to him rummage through his things and moving stuff around, swearing a few times. He finally reopened the door, all smile. “Sorry, my room is a mess. I hope you won’t mind.”

Enjolras shook his head and Grantaire pulled the blonde inside.

  
***

  
Unsurprisingly, the lack of experience turned out to be quite obvious. Enjolras did not know what to do with his hands as Grantaire made him lie delicately on the bed —it was a single bed with white sheets and a black bedspread. The bed was thoroughly unmade and Enjolras thought he felt crumbs in his back, but he did not care. All he cared about was to find out what he was supposed to do as Grantaire trailed wet kisses down his torso and towards his bellybutton. He knew what was coming and it made him painfully hard, and painfully anxious.

Grantaire made him remove his boxers and almost got kicked in the face. Enjolras’ apology was trapped between hiccuped giggles. Grantaire slapped him lightly on his thigh before plunging towards his belly and blowing a raspberry. Enjolras bursted into laughter. Was sex even supposed to be funny? He threw a guilty look at Grantaire who smiled at him.

“Relax!” he exclaimed, “There’s really nothing to get worked up about.”

“Hypocrite!” shouted Enjolras. He could feel Grantaire’s hands trembling on him and the man’s eyes were still drowned in disbelief. Grantaire shrugged.

“What I mean is... you don’t have to be embarrassed to feel your emotions to the fullest. I’m not judging you.”

“Neither am I,” Enjolras said, “I-I don’t know what to do.”

His lover —Enjolras felt his insides twist in excitement when he thought about that term— nodded and took Enjolras’ hands. He put them on his head. “I like to have my hair pulled,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras immediately complied, but he pulled too hard and Grantaire gasped and laughed. “A little less ardour, please,” he said. He went back to descending down Enjolras, kissing him around his prick in a teasing gesture. Enjolras punished him by pulled his hair. Grantaire laughed again, gayly. He seized Enjolras’ penis and lost no time engulfing it in his mouth. Enjolras threw his head back and moaned, letting go of Grantaire’s untamed mane.

Soon enough, Grantaire found a rhythm and Enjolras could do nothing, but squeeze his hands into fists, one firmly gripping the bed sheet and the other still in Grantaire’s har. He looked downward. Grantaire was looking up, right at him. What he did with his tongue was positively devilish. Enjolras spread his legs further and bit his lower lip, hard, in an attempt to muffle all the sounds that threatened to come out of him.

It was not long before he spent himself in Grantaire’s mouth. The latter swallowed around his prick and Enjolras almost sobbed. Their eyes were still locked.

Grantaire then walked on his knees on the bed until he was straddling Enjolras’ waist.

“Am I too heavy?” he asked, out of breath. He had a bit of sperm on his scrubby chin. Enjolras grinned and shook his head. He felt Grantaire’s belly, squeezed his ass cheeks and finally took his dick in his hands.

“Ow! OW!” cried out Grantaire. “Just... yes, like that. Not too hard, have you ever masturbate?”

“It’s not the same with another man!” Enjolras protested, blushing.

“Nevermind. It’s good. It’s really good, keep going...”

Grantaire locked eyes with him again, his mouth was hanging open. He did not make any other sound than words of encouragement and heavy breathing before he finally came on Enjolras’ smooth torso.

To Enjolras’ displeasure, Grantaire immediately abandoned him on the bed and left for the bathroom. He almost panicked, thinking perhaps he had misinterpreted the whole thing, or did something wrong, when Grantaire came back with a wet towel. Gently, he wiped the sperm from Enjolras. Then he carelessly threw the towel away and crashed onto Enjolras, nuzzling his nose. Enjolras made an ‘oof’ sound, the weight of the man was not uncomfortable. He let out a happy sigh and kissed Grantaire’s temple. His hand went back to Grantaire’s head and he mindlessly caressed his black curls.

As he was falling asleep, he could have sworn that Grantaire was purring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -"La Foule" means "The Crowd"  
> -The lyrics are "When sudddenly I turn / He steps backward / And the crowd throws me between his arms / Taken away by the crowd that drags us / Carrying us away / Crushed against one another / We are one body / And the flow without effort / Pushes us enchained to the other / And leaves us both / Radiant, intoxicated and happy"  
> -"Geneviève" means "White wave" or "Of the race of women"  
> -"Sauvageau" means "Savage"  
> -By the way, this is the website I utilised for first names http://www.thinkbabynames.com/  
> -"Laplante" means "The plant"


	6. Noir Désir (Grantaire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire suffers inside, but still clings to his extrovert life and his meager talent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -In this chapter, small talk about depression, feeling mediocre and not enough.

 

_Je ne suis pas gênée_   
_J'ai un esprit troublé_   
_Donne-moi un peu de temps_   
_Ça passera par le vent_

_Je veux être seule_   
_Reste-la, toi, ta gueule_   
_Je ne peux pas me calmer_   
_Laisse-moi t'embêter_

_C'est la manie_  
 _C'est la manie_   
~Vive la Fête

 

 

Grantaire felt Enjolras slowly falling asleep and stopping playing with his hair. He wondered for a second why someone would take pleasure in touching greasy, unkempt hair. Then he wondered if it was his fault, because he had told Enjolras he liked having his hair pulled. He tried to chase that thought away: Enjolras was not one to actively seek other people’s approbation. He cared about being just and right, and he was kind, but he did not do things in spite of himself just so someone else could be happy. That was more of a Grantaire habit.

Carefully, Grantaire got up and tucked in Enjolras so he would not get cold. He looked around at his room and gulped. Enjolras had not taken the time to look around. Anyway, he would probably tell him that the ugly Pollock-ish black and white paintings were brilliant. Or that the terrible shades of greys blooming in horrid, imperfect flowers were original. Grantaire stole a worried glance at his wardrobe: there were several little self-portraits stacked in there. They were painted during his Francis Bacon phase. He had tried to realize pastiche after pastiche, using himself as a model, but the results were too painful. Exaggerating his already grotesque features had created completely repulsive sights that seemed to catch something that truly existed in him. It was hard to look at any of these self-portraits, but he couldn’t resign himself to throw them away.

The problem with being the kind of person Grantaire was came out of the inability to forget striking images and the habit of becoming obsessed with them. Haunted by thousands of words and pictures, Grantaire had to get them out somehow, and the way to do it was sketching, doodling, drawing, and if the image was a particularly resilient one, painting. He could not destroy what he did, or else the image could come back in a vengeance, stronger than ever. Therefore, he accumulated his work without any presumption that they were anything special. They were just little pieces of him that he wanted to split up from his bruised mind.

When Enjolras had told him that he was an artist, Grantaire had groaned inside. He was not sure how he kept making friends with people who looked at his stuff and did not see the mismatched little tragedies in them. They saw beauty. Feuilly had even wanted to buy one of his painting once —to which Grantaire had laugh and said that he’d do anything for free. He had thought that perhaps Enjolras would see, that he would tell him, with his frank grave voice, what terrible things Grantaire could do with his hands. Sadly, with this frank voice of his, Enjolras had swoon over the eclectic decorum and had smiled at Grantaire. Of course, the beautiful man could not be begrudged his enthusiasm, and surely there was silver linings to be found in absurd daubing. Grantaire was simply aghast to be on the receiving end of this enthusiasm.

He looked at Enjolras who had started snoring lightly. The dim light coming from the other room was reflecting on his wet torso. His gorgeous blonde mane was spread around his face like a halo. He looked angelic, a fine marbled statue, what with his aquiline nose, his luscious lips and his prominent cheekbones. He has little body hair. His skin was fair, smooth and had few imperfections. Enjolras had a beauty spot on his chin and near his bellybutton. He had long limbs and long fingers, fingers that would be perfect to play the piano.

After a while, Grantaire felt a bit creepy and ashamed. Of course, Enjolras was beautiful. That was not a reason to stare at him in his sleep, especially since Enjolras trusted Grantaire enough to fall asleep on his bed. Sighing, he quietly left the room and went into his bathroom. He hesitated to turn on the lights, but he did and observed himself in the mirror. It was the only one in the apartment. Grantaire hated to look at himself. It was not that his appearance was particularly repugnant to him, although he knew that he was nothing much to look at, but when he looked right at himself, he saw either too much or too little. Too much from his past, not enough from his present. Sometimes, he had trouble recognizing himself. Nevertheless, he observed himself this time so that he could remember why exactly it was wrong to build false hopes regarding Enjolras.

In his tern, droopy blue eyes, he saw the fatigue and the illness lurking. His greasy black hair were too long, showing how little care he had for his personal hygiene and how he could easily forget to do simple tasks. His large mouth was always stuck into a frown or an unpleasant smirk, which people had told him was irritating over time. His hands were shaking a little because he had not taken enough alcohol that night to fulfill his need. It has been a while since he’d been drunk out of his mind, but he still needed his daily dose of alcohol. Still, it was a near miracle that he had had it in himself to let Bahorel pour all of his personal stash down the sink. He had cried, but he knew deep down that it was for the better.

Grantaire stared at his ghastly reflection and imagined his tall, blonde beauty next to him. The sight had to be a shock for anyone who realized they were seeing each other. Grantaire even wondered if Enjolras’ friends had tried to warn him off of him. That would not be particularly surprising. Bahorel and Feuilly, though, were encouraging this relationship with all their might. They thought it was good for Grantaire to see someone steadily. That was a futile, infantile hope: romance does not cure illnesses. In fact, he tended to think that it was the opposite. Going out was feeding his anxieties. Of course, he _needed_ to go out anyway, so he did not listen too much to that nagging part of him, but it was still there and it was probably right: seeing Enjolras would do nothing for his depressing tendencies.

He turned off the light, walked to his abandoned coat in his living room and seized it. He sat in one of the yellow foof chair with his coat serving as a blanket, and he looked at his ceiling until he fell asleep.

  
*******   


  
Each morning, Grantaire woke up before the sun rose. That was a completely new habit of his. A few years ago, he would spend his nights painfully awake. He had that irrational fear that he would not wake up. That he would have killed himself while sleeping, somehow. He could not get a day job, so he had worked as a barman in a gay pub for a while. It proved to be a nice way to score with desperate enthusiastic party-animals, but it had still damaged his social life because he had to wait until exhaustion before sleeping, keeping him from seeing people. Fortunately, he had work on this problem with a therapist and it was one of the few he had managed to solve. His fear had gradually disappeared in a sort of indifferent poof. When it came back, and it did, once in a while, Grantaire took sleeping pills. Those where not the only pills he had to swallow.

At six in the morning, on cue with this train of thoughts, Grantaire’s phone went off. He picked it up quickly so that it would not wake up Enjolras.

“I’m alive and well,” he declared. “I’m taking my citalopram in a sec.”

“I’ll stay on the phone until you’ve done it.”

“Alright, alright...”

He tiptoed into his room so he could get the medication hidden in his sock drawer. He took on pill in the pack. He went back to the livingroom. There, he swallowed the pill dry and audibly.

“Happy?” he said.

“Have a nice day at work, Vivi!”

He hung up.

Sophie Grantaire was his sister. She was perhaps a year younger than Enjolras, and she was still living with their parents in Beauharnois. Smart, vigorous and ever the practical woman, she was the only relative Grantaire ever talked to on a regular basis. She made sure that he took his antidepressant every morning, that he went to the doctor to renew his prescription every so often, and she also called to complain about boys at least twice during a month. Grantaire had known her shy and delicate, but with him, it appeared that she felt she had to be the strong one. She was not wrong.

He also expected his downstair neighbour to knock at seven to remind him that he had work today. It was a deal he had made with Floreal in exchange for various favours. She was a nice person, untroublesome; she liked to listen to his constant rambling, but did not mind his muted silences. They got along just fine. They had even slept together around Christmas time. They were both drunk, him from indulging a bit too much while waiting for the joyous season to end, and her from a festive family gathering.

He was really surprised when Éponine said that she was also Floreal’s friend. He had known her since this summer when she had moved in, and never had she talked about an Éponine. In fact, until now, Grantaire had thought that the girl was friendless. A loner. It would have explained why she followed him around, one day, until he made conversation. Was that how she always made friends?

Grantaire heard a muffled sound from his room. A minute later, Enjolras was walking out of it, a sleepy expression on his face. He stared at Grantaire with mean, gloomy eyes and a scorn. Mister was definitely not a morning person.

“My mother is going to kill me,” he simply uttered. Grantaire chuckled.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked.

“Give me coffee, or give me death,” Enjolras slurred.

  
*******   


  
It took about an hour for Enjolras to talk again. He had lazily dressed up, and downed two cups of coffee despite pulling a face when he saw the cheap brand. He protested when Grantaire proposed to make breakfast, but his stomach growled and he let himself be convinced.

“Why didn’t you sleep in the bed?” he finally asked.

“It’s too small. Your lungs would have collapsed under my weight,” he joked. Enjolras’ eyes went to the ceiling.

“You are not that fat. And even if you were, you could have moved me. I feel bad now. You must not have sleep too well.”

“Heh. Once I slept at Bahorel on the hard floor of his room because he had no couch back then. Plus, I want to treat my guest as well as possible. Don’t worry, it was nothing personal. I liked being pressed against you.”

Enjolras smiled and bit into his toast. Their silence was comfortable until Enjolras realized that Grantaire was still naked, and blushed, probably reminiscing the previous night. Grantaire grinned.

“So! How was that for a first time?”

“We did not really do it, though,” Enjolras mumbled. Grantaire threw him an insulted glare. The blonde shrugged. “What? Technically, it was just a blowjob.”

“ _Just_ a blowjob?” Grantaire repeated, his tone exaggeratedly indignant. Enjolras cringed and shook his head.

“I-I mean, it was fantastic!”

“Haha, look at you. You can tell me if you thought it was not enough. I just thought that for a first time, I would not go too far, is all.”

“Please don’t mock me,” Enjolras demanded. He bit in his toast again and chewed aggressively. His cheeks were a cute shade of pink. He looked like an angry seraph, the kind people depicted as pretty, white and feminine. “It’s like I either want too much or not enough, and either way you are going to make fun of me.”

“Ah, tough, isn’t it? Rest assured, people will joke and harass about sex whatever the situation might be. It’s because the act mesmerizes us and confuses us. Nobody really know how to view it.”

“Well, I used to view it as gross and optional. Now I’m not so sure. Do you think me prudish?” Enjolras asked timidly.

“To be honest, I did assume you were kind of a virginal prude before,” Grantaire admitted. “But somehow you’re just as passionate on that front too. I was very surprised, yesterday.”

“Assuming makes a fool of you and I,” Enjolras chanted.

“Oh, now, that’s just a predictable phrase. Find better,” Grantaire chuckled. Enjolras tilted his head and closed one eye, thinking.

“I think a virginal prude is how my friends would have described me before,” he agreed, “Even Combeferre, who told me he was most probably asexual.”

“Asexual? I never thought I’d meet one of those,” Grantaire said.

“What do you mean, ‘one of those’?”

“Well, someone who do not experience desire. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I got nothing against that. I just can’t fathom it. Desire is too intrinsic to my personality.”

“Ah. Well, mine too.”

“Cold Enjolras? Prey to desire?” Grantaire could not help but mocked. He got a glare and a set jaw for his trouble. “To the desire of freedom, surely. The desire to achieve world peace, maybe. But carnal desire?”

“I’m human, just as you are. I can’t just pretend it isn’t there. You’ve been witness to it, so what is your problem?”

“Well... You just said you use to think of sex as optional and gross. I guess I’m just afraid the next step is you getting bored of me. You’ll go explore your sexuality with someone else, or you’ll go back to being virginal after deciding it was not much after all.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “As if I could get bored of you.”

Grantaire could not believe his ears. Enjolras, the franc and blunt Enjolras, was lying to him. He snorted. “I get bored of myself a few hours into the day. _You_ couldn’t stand me for more than a few hours at a time.”

“I don’t have to agree with the voice of your low self-esteem,” retorted Enjolras. The way he phrased it hurt, but Grantaire did not let it be apparent. “And being annoyed with you does not mean that I am bored. You do make me feel a wide, wild range of emotions, but boredom is not one of them.”

“Most people do associate me with a tiring lassitude. There’s a reason I never kept friends for too long.”

“What about Bahorel? Feuilly? That woman you mentioned? You also seem to get along well with Courfeyrac, Jehan and the two new girls.”

“Yes, yes. I can entertain people for a while, doesn’t make them friends. As for Bahorel, and Feuilly, well they’re from a special kind of idiots. How the hell have you already forgotten the name of Cosette and Éponine?”

“I did not forget,” Enjolras mumbled.

“You and women, what’s the deal?”

“Not used hanging around them? The closest I have to a woman in my life is my mother.”

“Now, that’s not very nice!” Grantaire laughed, “She’s a woman alright, believe me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that she’s a gorgeous, desirable woman and act like one. Doesn’t take a genius to see where you got your looks.”

It was true. Geneviève was a cold marbled beauty, just like her son. She was probably in her forties, since Enjolras was twenty, but she did not look them. There were few wrinkles, few crow’s feet on her face. She had the same blonde locks and the same icy blue eyes than Enjolras. When she had open the door and walked rapidly to Grantaire, who was fumbling with his phone, he had actually gasped. She had smirked at him knowingly. She had more confidence and self-awareness than her son.

Enjolras sighed at Grantaire’s confession.

“‘Acting like a woman,’” he said. “That doesn’t mean anything. There are no intrinsically womanly behaviour.”

“Would you be jealous of your own mother?” Grantaire dared to say. Enjolras scoffed. “Because it’s either that, or you just said something that could be considered transmisogynistic.”

“What? How?” Enjolras pressed in a worried tone. One would only have to imply that he was being oppressive to make the man quiver, alert. Enjolras wanted to be this type of person devoid of prejudices. Too bad for him, that did not exist. Everyone could be racist, homophobic, sexist and whatnot. Most of these things were profoundly ingrained in people’s cultural background. There would be no tomorrow where it wasn’t so.

“By saying that there are no womanly behaviour, aren’t you trying to say that gender is a social construct? And if it is, then aren’t you demeaning the cause of trans people? In that case, trans women” Grantaire asked. Enjolras had this look of completely renewed concentration. He smiled.

“Ah, no. See, I said ‘intrinsically womanly behaviour’. That doesn’t mean I don’t acknowledge that culture and environment have an impact on people that make them identify more with one gender.”

“Now, what about bigender people? And agender people?”

“Same thing. They simply identify with the two societal genders or none, but that doesn’t mean that gender is a determinant for our actions. Or that gender is not important. What I meant earlier was that a phrase like ‘act like a woman’ is absurd, because it implies that you gender a person’s actions.”

“Well, if actions are not gendered, how do you determine one’s gender?”

“That’s a very complicated, personal question. I just feel comfortable with my attributed gender, so I call myself a man. Do I ‘act like a man’, though? Most people would tell you no.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not like either one of us is qualified for this conversation. You identify as a man, so do I... perhaps I should talk with your friend Jehan instead.”

“Perhaps you should,” Enjolras agreed. “And there’s no doubt that I should get to know more trans people.”

“Indeed, instead of talking out of your ass,” Grantaire teased. Enjolras frowned, but Grantaire blew him a kiss.

There was a knock at the door that made Enjolras startled. Grantaire got up and opened it. Floreal was standing there. She immediately looked past him at Enjolras who practically gawked at them. Grantaire was still naked, and Floreal was only wearing a pink negligee. She smiled, blushed and waved at the blonde slightly.

“You have work today,” she said, her voice soft and almost inaudible. “You must be there before eleven. Hello, Enjolras.”

Enjolras blinked and nodded, trying to act as casual as they were. Grantaire chuckled.

“Thanks. Want to come in? I have an hour left before I have to drive Enjolras to school.”

Floreal nodded and entered Grantaire’s place.

  
*******   


  
As it turned out, Enjolras and Floreal became quickly enthused with each other and soon the nakedness was all forgotten about. Enjolras was big on speaking his mind and ranting about diverse societal issues, and Floreal drank his every word.

What was interesting with Floreal was that she did not necessarily care about what you had to say. She cared about the person behind the words and their capacity to express themself. Being unable to utter more than a few sentences at a time herself, she admire someone who could explain, and shout, and talk very loud. She had also the uncanny ability to make you feel like she understood. She was all delicacy and empathy. By the end of the one-way conversation, Enjolras had gained another follower. Floreal practically had stars in her eyes.

Obviously, Enjolras loved an audience. He was not particularly vain, but he thought he had things to say and important messages to spread around. He spoke with a natural zeal and none of his words sounded forced, polished or prefabricated. Perhaps he did not realized it himself. Perhaps all that mattered to him was that people listened and strove to improve just like he did. Perhaps it was truth and social consciousness that mattered the most. One thing was for sure, he looked at Floreal with a gentleness and an interest he had not shown for Éponine, who seemed to be more of a cynic like Grantaire, or Cosette, who was a polite girl, but who was there to make friends.

Grantaire felt a bit jealous. The first time he had seen Enjolras, he had had stars in his eyes too. Only, he was not good at being polite and he was only considerate half of the time. Had he been more like his friend Floreal, perhaps he’d have met Enjolras properly way before. Perhaps they’d have kissed way before. Perhaps they would last, too.

“I have to go, now,” Enjolras told him. “I have to pass at home to get my bag. So if you could put something on?”

Grantaire grumbled and got up. He dragged himself to his clothes spread out on the floor.

“You’re not going to put the same clothes, are you?”

“Well, that’s what you’re doing too.”

“You do have a point, but I’m not going to work; I’m going to sit my ass in a classroom full of students, some of them with pajamas pants.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I have my uniform at work, mother-hen. You should bring Floreal to your class. That would keep them awake.”

Floreal twirled around, all smile and pink cheeks.

“It wouldn’t be too productive,” Enjolras said, but his eyes were gentle.

“I don’t know. I know a thing or two that Floreal could teach to a bunch of sexually frustrated students. Although, in your case, you can’t be frustrated anymore.”

He thought he would make Enjolras a bit shy like earlier, but as he was putting on his sweatshirt, the blonde stepped forward with confidence and said: “Maybe, but that won’t last, so you better keep me satisfied.”

Floreal giggled and Enjolras joined her. Grantaire just stared. The implication that Enjolras wanted more sex eventually was not supposed to be a surprised, but it still gave him goosebumps.

“It is nice that you have found another kind person who accepts you as you are,” Floreal said gayly. Enjolras raised his head proudly. Grantaire only blanched. He picked up his coat, put it on and went outside without a word, without daring to look at Enjolras and Floreal’s bemused expressions.

  
*******   


  
The day at work was slow. The only highlight of the day was when Feuilly showed up during Grantaire’s break with two iced cappuccinos from Tim Horton. Grantaire made grabby hands at his friends who laughed and tried to make him beg for it. Unfortunately for Feuilly, the man had a real sweet heart made out of marshmallows: Grantaire only had to pout and whine a little for him to give up his game.

“Thanks, man,” Grantaire said, humming as he sipped the frozen drink.

People thought him weird for drinking that kind of stuff during Winter, especially since he was not particularly found of that season. He even bought popsicle and ice cream whenever he could. He was just a sucker for cold snacks, probably because they required less efforts than heating something in the oven or the microwave. In Winter, you didn’t have to hurry up to eat before the snack cooled down.

Feuilly did not really care about frozen drinks. He just liked to order the same thing as his friends, for some reason. To say “two Xs” instead of “one X and one Y”. Grantaire suspected he had a bit of benign OCD.

“Something interesting coming soon?” Feuilly asked.

“Expo-wise? Bah, there’s Adrian Paci, I like him fine... Oh, There’s also Collage coming up. That one should interest you.”

If Grantaire was a painter in the loosest sense of the word, Feuilly was first and foremost a handyman. He sold handmade objects in his spare time, little wooden sculptures, little collages, and even some knitted hats and slippers. He enjoyed all forms of art, but he particularly liked was demanded assembling. He liked to “solve puzzles”, as he would say. He was a big fan of Andy Goldsworthy, a man who worked with whatever he found in nature to make temporary works of art. He had talked many times about how he’d like to try one day. Feuilly did not have a lot of free time.

“Ah, that’s pretty cool. I’ll try to come some Wednesday next month. I’m leaving one of my two jobs.” Grantaire gaped at him and Feuilly nodded solemnly. “I gave my notice yesterday. Bahorel is making me. He’s going to work as a kickboxing instructor from now on. I protested, but he practically ordered me to. Apparently, he doesn’t see me enough.”

“Getting tired of being stuck with my ugly mug, probable,” Grantaire joked. Feuilly looked unimpressed.

“Don’t force me to tickle you again, punk.”

“We did miss you yesterday, though.” The beginning of an apology passed Feuilly’s lips, but Grantaire cut him off. “We know it’s not your fault. You’re a hard worker. You dislike owing someone, being in debts or relying on others. I only hope you know you can lean on us when it is too much. I don’t think spending ninety-eight percent of your time at work, and the other two percent at these meetings, is all.”

“These meetings are very important. I feel that the guys finally decided to explore the potential of such a group. I have a project, you know? I want to—”

“Feuilly, you know you can lean on us, right?”

“Of course, Grantaire,” Feuilly answered. He now had a serious glint in his eyes, making Grantaire think perhaps he had made a mistake insisting. He did not want to worry Feuilly. “I trust you,” Feuilly added. “You and Bahorel are the best people I know.”

Grantaire snorted, but did not deny the claim for Feuilly’s sake. Feuilly patted him on the back.

“I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll have more time, now. Maybe I could model for you, or something.”

“Oh, now you have to promise, man.”

“Haha, okay, I promise. Next week, okay?”

He put on his woolen ushanka and his sunglasses, and left.

Feuilly was not really a beauty, at least not like one would qualify Enjolras of beautiful, but he had a peculiar physique. He was rather tall and looked like someone who had worked all his life, even though he was only twenty-three. He had short black hair and sometimes sported an horrid thick mustache just to make his friends laugh. What people noticed the most, though, were his brilliant blue eyes. Feuilly was East Asian, and it was a rare occurrence. Feuilly did like his eyes, but he still hid them behind sunglasses from time to time because people stared. Even other Asian folks stared. Once, someone called him a demon, simply because they’d seen his eyes.

Grantaire, who liked to paint all that haunted him, had drawn and painted these eyes a hundred times. Feuilly had been insulted when he saw that Grantaire only sketched his eyes. He wanted a proper portrait. Grantaire agreed that it was the least he could do. He didn’t think he could do justice to his friends by painting them, but if they were content to receive his daubing as gifts, then good for them.

  
*******   


  
Grantaire spent the rest of his time thinking about Enjolras. There were a lot of couples coming to visit the museum. Most of them were young students who had free time, or old retired people. Most of them were heterosexual couples. Most of them had started to look like the other, emulating the person they loved. It scared Grantaire. He envisioned Enjolras and him, A sun and a moon, and did not like the idea of having an impact at all on Enjolras. Nevertheless, he thought that maybe it was too late for him. Maybe he couldn’t do without Enjolras’ impact on him anymore. So he felt momentarily trapped and anxious.

After work, Grantaire’s hands were shaking and he needed a drink. He went to the neerest pub and called Bahorel so the man would stop him from doing something stupid. He had time to down three shots of vodka before his friend arrived, red in the face.

“Some asshole cop gave me a contravention because I came here too fast! I swear I was not even above the speed limits! All paranoids in this city. What’s going on? Are you okay? I’m taking you home right now!”

Grantaire laughed without humour and let himself be man handled out of the pub by his strong friend. Bahorel had always liked to drag and carry people. He had worked as a doorman for a year before deciding to go to university. During that time, he stopped working because his parents paid his studies, but apparently he wanted to make an effort again.

“So, you want to teach some poor schmucks how to kick ass? Will you have the patience for that? You changed your major three times,” Grantaire said in the car.

“My friend, I have found my vocation. When it comes to kick a few butts, especially my shiny new students’ butts, I’m all there!” Bahorel exclaimed with a large grin. “Plus, if it makes Feuilly stop coming back home exhausted, that’s totally worth it.”

“Indeed, indeed. Will have more time to mock his newfound admiration for your QUEERBEC thingy.”

“Aw, man. Don’t mock our little group. It’s still fragile. It’s good for you too, anyway. I haven’t seen you so excited in ages! Being in love does you good.”

“I’m not in love, Bahorel,” Grantaire sighed. “That can only be temporary lust. Enjolras is beautiful, is all.”

“Ah, yes. I like me some temporary lust that lasts for over a year.”

“I don’t even know the guy that well!”

“You asked so many questions, I thought I was going to call Combeferre so he could write you a book about his own friend. Obviously, it’s more fascination than lust. You’d only want to fuck him if it was only lust—”

A car cut Bahorel in his trajectory and he slammed his foot on the break. His car made a screeching noise.

“Now, you FUCKING PIECE OF OLD HAG SHIT!” Bahorel yelled, punching his wheel and his horn.

“I did have sex with Enjolras. I blew him. He gave me a handjob.”

“Did you see this? All savages in this— What? You already slept with Enjolras?”

“Yeah. Yesterday, when we went home.”

“Ya mean... you were not really that drunk, were you?” Bahorel asked in a worried tone.

“No, no. He just... I brought him home and he started stripping.”

Bahorel’s barking laugh was incredulous. “The Enjolras I know? Shedding his clothes before you? Just like that? No foreplay, no nagging?” Grantaire nodded. “Wow! That’s great, man! Like, you can’t tell me you are ugly anymore. Look at who’s got the hots for you.”

“That’s just because he’s a very bizarre individual. That or he took pity on me.”

“Grantaire, stop.”

“That’s what I was thinking, after work. That perhaps he lied and took pity on me. You never know. He seems honest, but—”

“Grantaire, Enjolras can be naive, but one thing he’s not is a bed-liar.”

“A what?”

Bahorel shrugged and decided to end the conversation. He put on the radio and bobbed his head as some heavy metal music bursted out of the speakers.

“Now, shut up! That song’s my jam!”

  
*******   


  
Bahorel and Feuilly had a tiny apartment not too far away from Grantaire’s own place. It had a kitchen, that also served as a living room, a bedroom and a bathroom. Both men slept in the same king-sized bed, which took most of the space in their room. They did not have a dining table, so they ate on the couch or at the sole computer desk they had. It was not much, but it was their home and they were at ease there. So was Grantaire, who came to crash when his mood was too heavy. Such was the case now.

“Did you take your meds, man?” Bahorel asked. He served Grantaire a big glass of water. Grantaire almost spilled it on the floor and scoffed at himself. He nodded at Bahorel.

“Yes. Sometimes, I still get depressed. They’re not magic, you know.”

“But what triggered it, then?”

“I don’t know. I told you, I thought about Enjolras, and my mood went down the drain.

It was the truth. When Enjolras was not there, Grantaire thought about him and the more he thought, the less their relationship made sense to him. He was afraid that Enjolras was going to replace him eventually. He was afraid of getting too attached before that happened. He was afraid that they would not part in good terms. The thought of not seeing Enjolras ever again made him quivered with sorrow, which was usually a nasty sigh. Grantaire had the uncanny ability to get obsessed and addicted. That’s how he lived his melancholia.

Bahorel installed his friend on the couch and turned on the TV and his old Nintendo 64. They played Mario Kart until it was nine and Feuilly came back from his second job. He sat between his two friends and they decided to watch a movie because Feuilly was hopeless at video games. He fell asleep in the first ten minutes of Reservoir Dogs, his head leaning on Bahorel’s shoulder. Bahorel immediately got up, took his friend in his arms and carried him to their bed, whistling while doing so. Grantaire sometimes wondered how close were his friends. He felt a bit jealous. He and Bahorel had never shared a bed.

“Sorry about that,” Bahorel said when he came back. “I’m really looking forward to when he’ll stop going to that job. He has until next week, and after bye bye. I’m telling you, I will not stand there and let my friends have burn outs on my watch.”

“You’re a good friend, Bahorel,” Grantaire said.

“Aw, shucks.”

“Feuilly told me you were the best person he knew,” Grantaire added. He omitted to had himself in that equation. He was pleased when he saw his friend blush and grin widely.

“Really? He told you that? Sweet! I’m going to tease him until his death for that.”

“Don’t. He was sincere. He really appreciate what you do for him,” Grantaire insisted.

Bahorel took on a serious expression and acquiesced.

Although Grantaire considered Bahorel and Feuilly like two best friends, the two were like brothers to each other. Perhaps more. Since they had met, they had been inseparable. Their relationship rivalled the trio Enjolras-Combeferre-Courfeyrac in intensity. Sometimes, they even looked a little co-dependent, though Grantaire knew that could not be true: they were both very independent men who could stand to be on their own. They only preferred not to.

When Grantaire met Bahorel in a kickboxing class at twenty, they became fast friends and the first thing Bahorel did was to introduce him and Feuilly. Bahorel had seemed nervous and hopeful, like someone who brought his girlfriend home for the first time. Fortunately, Feuilly was the type to get along with everybody. He was definitely one of the nicest person Grantaire had the chance to meet. He helped with the alcoholism. In fact, Feuilly and Bahorel were the two accomplices who sent Grantaire to a therapist, who then sent him to a psychiatrist. Thanks to them, he had happy pills and things went better than they were in his adolescence.

He had felt immediately welcomed by this bizarre duo. Nevertheless, he did not feel as though he was _part_ of the family. Not quite. He was always the damaged friend. The one people treated like a sick pet that they must take care of. Not that Bahorel and Feuilly were cruel enough to see him as their mascot, but it was a fitting image. He was absolutely grateful for their existence and thought he could probably not do without them.

What would the world look like if he couldn’t drink and fight with Bahorel? Exchange words about art with Feuilly? Play Mario Kart, eat poutine and watch boring Quebecer sitcoms with Bahorel? His life would black out again. He was sure of it. Even Enjolras’ light would not be enough, if Enjolras was a light at all at this point. He was like the sun, which heavy moody clouds kept Grantaire from seeing.

“Seriously though, the same goes for you, Grantaire. We appreciate you.”

“Likewise, likewise. I’m sorry, I’m creating awkward moments.”

“Heh, I like moments. I live for moments. I lurv you man!” Bahorel swung his arm around Grantaire and ruffled his hair. Grantaire laughed and let him. “Want to crash here?”

“No choice. I left my stupid car at work. Hope it’ll still be there tomorrow.”

  
***

  
Grantaire did not call or text Enjolras for the next week. He did not go the the two meetings at the Musain either. The man was obviously growing impatient, sending inquisitive texts and even calling. On Monday evening, he started texting repeatedly and Grantaire could feel the resentment and the passive-aggression through the words.

  
_[Enjolras]: We missed you today. Was it not your case?_

_[Enjolras]: Combeferre brought his new friends Joly and Bossuet._

_[Enjolras]: Musichetta came too and they seem to know each other_

_[Enjolras]: It was not just a fling, was it? You were honest with me?_

_[Enjolras]: I don’t have patience for these games. I dunno how they work_

  
Slumped on his bed with a bag of chips and a pad to sketch. He stared at his phone, indecisive. He did not pick it up. Instead, he picked the bit of charcoal he had dropped on his bed, leaving dark stains, and tried to draw Enjolras’ face for the first time.

It was February, the disabled month of love. It was thus appropriate for Grantaire to concentrate on his memory of Enjolras’ traits and to put him on paper. He had never dared to before. He was certain that the man’s magnificence would slip between his fingers and would miss the piece of paper. Recently, though, especially after having sucked the blonde’s dick, Grantaire thought it might be a crime not to immortalize his features. Even if it was only a half-assed drawing.

What he did not count on was the knock at the door. At first, he thought it would be Floreal, who sometimes came for a beer or two and to listen to him ramble about marble statues, but at the second knock, loud and insistent, he knew that it was Enjolras. The man wanted to confront him. He should not have been surprised, since such was his temper.

Grantaire went to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He’d have to shave. He needed a shower and he had worn the same clothes for three days now. He found himself profoundly ugly and it made him want to destroy his image.

A third knock on the door. “R! Grantaire! I know that you are there! Open the door, _now_.”

Grantaire sighed. He supposed he had no choice, so he opened the door and Enjolras entered like a fury.

“What the hell is your problem?!” He shouted. “Everything seems fine and one day, you just decide to disappear? What did I do that was so bad? Did you change your mind? Did you just play with me?”

Grantaire shook his head and raised his hands helplessly. Enjolras kept asking questions, and each of them was like a bullet, accusatory and unforgiving. Grantaire lowered his head and gulped. He did not know what to answer.

“I had a bad pass,” he said, lamely. Enjolras frowned. He seemed to realize that Grantaire’s absence did not have to do with him.

“We-were you sick?” he asked, his voice a little softer.

Grantaire was paralysed. What should he say? He was definitely ill, but it was easier to tell someone that you had mono or a rough cold than to admit to being sick in the head. What if Enjolras did not believe in depression? His father had not. Neither did most of his relatives and old friends, in fact. They thought he was an irresponsible, lazy man. He did not want Enjolras to think that about him. However, perhaps it was better to be sincere. Enjolras would not react well to an obvious lie or to thinking Grantaire was playing him.

All of these questions were giving him a headache. He opted for frankness, and the hell with the shame.

“I’ll show you,” Grantaire said. “Wait here.”

He went to his room and opened his sock drawer where he grabbed his flask of pills. He went back, took Enjolras’ hand and put it delicately inside. Enjolras’ eyes widened.

“‘Antidepressant’?” he read. Grantaire nodded. “That... that would explain the frequent mood swings and the auto-derision.”

“A lot of things can explain mood swings and auto-derision. You could not have guessed so soon. Anyway, I’m sorry if you don’t want to talk to me for a while, because I will tell you now, I can be unreliable like that. Doesn’t mean I did not read your texts. I did.”

“If I did not want to talk to you again, I would not be here,” Enjolras declared. He gave back the bottle of pills. “You could have told me. Were you scared I would judge?”

That was not all. Grantaire feared not only misconceptions, but misunderstandings. People who knew he had depression tended to go into two categories: the ones that thought he was choosing to be negative, and the ones who mothered him. He did not want Enjolras to be part of either categories. He wanted Enjolras to understand him truly. He was not naive enough to believe that could happen.

“Perhaps. Or that was none of your business,” Grantaire blurted out. It was mean. Enjolras looked a bit hurt, but he did not avert his eyes.

“You are right. That’s none of my business. I’m just saying, I would have understood. Or at least, I wouldn’t have tell you such harsh words just now.”

Enjolras did not look ashamed, but disappointed. Grantaire shrugged.

“Well, now you know. Can you leave, please?”

“Do-do I have anything to do with your... bad pass?” Enjolras asked suddenly. Grantaire grounded his teeth. He did not feel like explaining how he felt to Enjolras.

“Listen, I don’t want to talk, right now. I’ll tell you another time,” he paused, “You did not do anything. It’s all me and my stupid brain. Do you want something to drink? To eat?”

Enjolras bit his lips and shook his head. Grantaire shrugged, indifferent, and disappeared in his room. There, he sat on the bed, picked up his sketching pad and his piece of charcoal, and went back to work. Enjolras joined him soon after. Grantaire did not have the strength to protest his presence. They sat side by side, Grantaire drawing and Enjolras watching his slightest move. The blonde gasped when he say his own face slowly appearing on the paper. He did not say anything, but he looked fascinated. A young Narcissus discovering that he was good enough to be represented on a piece of paper.

“It’s just...” Grantaire began. He sighed. “It’s nothing. Look, there are even stains of ketchup chips on the paper. I just thought about you and it seemed like an evidence that I had to draw you. My intent was to paint you afterwards.”

“I’m flattered,” Enjolras breathed. He was still staring at the drawing. “How do you draw like that without even looking at me? Is your memory that great?”

“Well, no,” Grantaire said, “It’s not that my memory is great. I’m a forgetful person. There are images that haunt me, is all.”

“I haunt you?”

“...”

It was hard to admit it, so Grantaire did not. He blackened Enjolras’ full lips on his sketch. The drawing was imperfect. He had failed to catch the rabid, passionate expression that Enjolras naturally sported.

“Just tell me if it’s a good thing,” Enjolras pressed.

Grantaire turned around and kissed him on the mouth. Enjolras seemed to take it for a good sign and kissed back. Hard. He cupped Grantaire’s face and nibbled at his lips. He mouthed at his jaw and even at his cheek. He felt up Grantaire’s neck and his hands went to his hair which he pulled. He looked at Grantaire, a ferocious look in his eyes.

“Don’t ignore my texts anymore,” he demanded. “Please,” he added.

Grantaire sneered. “Can’t stand being put a side for a week, can we? Having sex had made you into some kind of debauched creature.”

Enjolras pulled on his hair harder. Grantaire moaned.

“I was worried. It’s not only about me wanting sex. It’s about me wanting you to be there. To know what you are doing. How you feel,” Enjolras said.

“You sound like a controlling girlfriend,” Grantaire retorted. Enjolras was pulling so hard that his head was thrown back and he could see the ceiling.

“Why are you so mean to me? You said I didn’t do anything.”

“Maybe I want to be punished,” offered Grantaire. He smirked when Enjolras let go of him and got flustered.

“So it’s sexual? To create some kind of... tension?”

“Why not?”

“That’s ridiculous! Especially in your state.”

“You know nothing of my state of mind. Perhaps it’s good for me. To unwind, let off steam. To be punished and feel like I got what I deserved.”

Truth to be told, Grantaire had never been into BDSM much, but the more he thought about a dominant Enjolras, the more it spiced the already colourful fantasies he had. Enjolras seemed surprised.

“You want me to... make you know your place. Like a dog.”

“Don’t be so condescending.”

“I’m not! Courfeyrac had talked to me about the practice, and it’s perfectly safe when we know what we’re doing, and I don’t know what I’m doing at all! What if I hurt you? Wouldn’t you like to unwind in another manner?”

Dominating Enjolras was a no-no. It was a strange, alien thought to him. Topping, sure, but not dominating. He caressed Enjolras’ thigh absentmindedly. Enjolras kissed him on the corner of his mouth.

“I think I should get experience first,” Enjolras murmured, his face so close, his breath so warm and his scent so good. “What do you say?”

Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand and put it on his groin. Grantaire pulled away.

“I don’t feel like it,” he said.

He got up and left his room. He got an easel and a canvas from the closet in the livingroom and put them into place. He also got out his tubes of paint, his brushes and his palette. Only then, he went back where he left Enjolras and pointed at the blonde.

“I want you naked. Come on.”

 

*******

 

  
“And you made him pose for you naked?”

“Yeah.”

“In the middle of your livingroom.”

“Yup.”

Bahorel whistled, impressed. The trio was sitting on the couch, beer in hand, on Thursday evening. Feuilly was smiling indulgently at the two of them.

“Surely, you used newspaper for the floor?” he asked.

“Not at all. I spontaneously wanted to paint him, so I did, is all. Damn the stains and all that. I’d have painted the floor one day anyway.”

“You are lucky that your landlord doesn’t mind dealing with your... spontaneousness,” quipped Bahorel.

“He’s right, punk,” Feuilly said, “Not everyone like pretty colours splashed everywhere.”

“My walls may look like vomit, but that painting I started? I think when I’m done, I’m either setting it on fire or making love to it,” Grantaire said.

Bahorel had this little jeering gaze. Feuilly snorted and swatted at Grantaire.

“Come on, man. You have the real Enjolras. Don’t waste your time with a painting.”

“The painting won’t age and wither, though,” Bahorel laughed.

“Hey, hey, his Enjolras may not be Dorian Gray, but he’s got a few years before that happen. The painting could get ripped apart.”

“So could Enjolras.”

“Would you two stop?” groaned Grantaire, but he felt smug.

His bad days had passed, and although he did felt bad for pushing around Enjolras, they had reconciled. Enjolras had accepted to pose for him, standing naked in the middle of the room with a half-hard erection, his hair loose and a bemused smile. Grantaire first had traced him rapidly, then had started mixing the paint. He regretted not having some red blanket to put on the floor or around Enjolras. Still, after two hours, he was half-satisfied with what he had done and in a much better mood. He had sucked Enjolras’ dick again. Then Enjolras had insisted to suck his, which he did rather clumsily, but with a good spirit. He had been enthralled with the painting, apparently not because it was his reflection, but because Grantaire had painted it. Grantaire did not believe him, but he felt flattered anyway.

“As if I would fall for a Dorian Gray, anyway. Feuilly. Come on.”

Feuilly nodded. “Enjolras is much more noble. At the last meeting, I took the time to talk to him personally. He was really friendly and eager to help. He told me that he was a little overwhelmed with relationships and assignments to do something significant, but that he was still writing articles. He wants to promote his friend Jehan’s website. I went on that website before; it’s really interesting, provides a lot of helpful links and— what?” he stopped when he noticed that Bahorel and Grantaire were looking at him funny.

“Nothing,” Bahorel said, “Only, it seems that not only Grantaire has a crush.”

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “Am I not allowed to talk about a dude without having to say ‘no homo’?”

“It’s not funny when it’s not homoerotic in some way,” Grantaire pointed out. They laughed.

“Perhaps a little homo, then,” Feuilly admitted, “It’s just that... rich white guys usually don’t pay me much attention. Since I met Enjolras, he’s only been kind to me, and now I have more time to get to know him.”

“Hey, what about me?” Bahorel exclaimed.

“You’re not rich! Your family is. You are as broke as I am, punk!”

Bahorel crossed his arms and feign to sulk. Feuilly punched him in the arm.

“You two need to get laid instead of trying to steal my date. Anyway, you are both way too pretty for Enjolras to like you. He likes ugly duckling with a protuberant tumour as a nose, just like me.”

Bahorel sighed loudly and Feuilly turned to punched him on the arm.

“You are not ugly! Stop that!”

“I’m not lying. I know Cyrano de Bergerac’s tirade by heart, you know!”

“That’s because you’re a donk and a punk! You are so not ugly!”

“Then prove it.”

“How?”

“By kissing the poor lonely toad that I am! How else? Don’t make the beautiful prince in disguise wait, Frrrrancis!”

He laughed, but Feuilly cupped his face and planted a wet kiss on his lips. He did not even hesitate. It was chaste, but it was a little more than a peck. Like an admission. Grantaire was dumbfounded. So was Bahorel apparently, who was gawking at them. Feuilly looked proud. He did not even wipe his mouth.

“Okay? That was random and disgustingly sweet of you two!” exclaimed Bahorel. “Look at how your relationship is developing! Now I feel jealous.”

“What, do you want one too?” Feuilly mocked. Bahorel only frowned. At least Feuilly seemed to be having fun.

They spent the rest of the evening joking around. Grantaire thought that his friends were acting strangely. Feuilly was unusually smug and daring, a bit touchy-feely, and he caught Bahorel staring at their friend many times, as if he was questioning something. Perhaps something had happened while he was clustered in his thoughts for a whole week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Name of the chapter is "Black Desire"  
> -The Lyrics mean "I am not shy / I've got a troubled mind / Give me a little time / It will pass by the wind / I want to be alone / You stay there and shut up / I can't calm down / Let me annoy you / It's the compulsion / It's the compulsion"  
> -"Sophie" means "Wisdom"

**Author's Note:**

> -I'm Hyela on Tumblr too. If you like this story, come and say hi.


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